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 of

my character and profited from her attention.

Raised in Colorado, my heart still thrills to

a mountain meadow of native wildflowers:

blue columbine, red paintbrush, gold buttercups.

Transplanted to Iowa and grafted to a farmer,

I find myself blooming like a wild prairie rose;

feeling fragrant and loved in my Father’s eyes.