a poem in my pocket

My mother raised roses in lovely hues:

soft peach, pale yellow, and deep scarlet;

each properly pruned and sweetly scented.

I admired her backyard bushes in bloom,

squirmed under her careful cultivation as

she pruned flaws and nurtured character

I was of different seed by birth but

mom raised me like her own heirloom,

watered with tender attention until

Transplanted to Iowa and grafted to a farmer,

I find myself blooming like a wild prairie rose;

delicately fragrant yet proven to be hardy.