Garden Song Josie LaVoi

GARDEN SONG

Josie LaVoi

I want to grow flowers. Huge flowers! The kind that would win prizes at the county fair.

Peonies so large and bulbous, delicate petals curved like the downy wing of a baby bird, and Cherry-Red Tulips deep enough for drinking soup.

Zinnias as big as grandma’s dog and Chrysanthemums as big as grandma.

Lily of the Valley, like swinging church bells, and Gardenia, Delphinium, Hydrangea, and Marigold.

Alstroemeria, Amaranthus, Begonia, Firethorn, Goldenrod, Honeysuckle, Hyacinth, and Morning Glory. But no weeds! No no no weeds!

Just beautiful Baby’s Breath twisted through the hallways of my home and the soft brush of Forget-Me-Nots— don’t you ever forget— against my cheek.

I could grow huge beautiful flowers that would blind my neighbors with their soft glow in freckled morning light, sharp shards of soft Pink Petunia and Snapdragon spearing toward the clouds.

I would cry one tear into the hollow center of a Crocus, the huge hollow center of the Crocus, and watch it grow taller.

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