Mom planted
clusters of flowers,
from the edge of the driveway,
along its gently rising slope,
until it reached a plateau,
where it was crisply cut off
by concrete steps,
leading up from the garage door
to the long front walk.
Mom chose
colorful flowers:
vibrant, varied & showy —
fulfilling her vision
of reserved sophistication,
tastefully executed,
like adding expensive fur trim
to the collar & cuffs
of a plain cloth coat.
Mom’s fussy
flowery vision
might’ve been noteworthy on its own,
were it not
for my brother Doug,
who planted pumpkin seeds
at irregular intervals,
up & down, in & out,
Mom’s colossal column of color.
No one expected
Doug’s seeds to even grow,
but they did, profusely:
Orange, bulbous, shiny, orbs —
swelling grandly each day,
nudging their way to center-stage,
like dim-witted cousins
attending a wedding,
wearing Halloween costumes.
Mother may
have been angry.
(Perhaps she was.)
But the pumpkin-bumpkins
served the flowers well:
While the rocks of Kyoto
help make raked-sands seem sacred,
Doug’s scattered seeds
made Mom’s flowers smile.
About the Creator
j.s.lamb
Retired journalist. Author of "Orange Socks & Other Colorful Tales," a collection of short stories about how I survived the U.S. Navy and kept my sense of humor. (Available on Amazon.)
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