June 2008  

Garden    ©    by    Grey Brown
 

Strange to see old photos,
our yard flowering with quince,
yellow torches heralding spring.

Later, azaleas wither in drought,
ivy grows
with abandon.
Every now and then,
my father in some spring impulse
prunes anything in his path,
my mother screaming,
The dogwood, my God, not the dogwood.
Now, that is a sin.

But think of my parents planting
in younger years,
before the fighting,
the lonely affairs,
the drinking and the staved-off divorce.
At some point, they go together,
choose pink dogwood over white,
Japanese iris over bearded.
He teaches her about apple trees,
my mother knows the secret of planting bulbs.
My father digs as she directs,
their heads bent over the earth.

Previously published in the North Carolina Poetry Society's
Pinesong: Awards 2008. Used with the poet's permission.
NOTICE: The copyright © for this poem belongs to the poet.