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.
