Medium: Poetry
My mother would disappear
Down to her greenhouse
Like an alchemist to his study
A welly booted Prospero
At the bottom of the garden
It’s a little dominion
She said,
As she looked at the
Expectant shoots
Soil matissed in dashes
On her smock
A cold snap surprised
Us all in May
Claimed the entire
Top shelf of shoots
I asked my mother
If she would try again
Replant and reseed
No, she said, if Nature
Wanted them to grow
Nature would have let them,
And she locked up the
Greenhouse door
