what kind of garden are you from?

 

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.

 

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