Lyla Buds

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A time gardening with my Granddaughter.

My knees are in mint, my hands in spring tea pulling out leaves.  At my side are buds, pods and a granddaughter. Only the Lilac and the Bridal Veil are in bloom.  

She stirs up leaves looking for frogs, getting bored at finding but one.  Hands are wiped on her leggins; hands full of stagnant maple keys and frog pee.  She asks if she can pull a Poppy bud and then, while I am distracted, pulls it anyway.  I look up to see an I told you so smile and an almost perfect Poppy.  At her feet the discarded Poppy clothes.

One day silk frocks will not get in her way on the monkey bars.  Her blue eyes will pop in the green blouse and she will bloom and unfurl, just enough, in an evening dress.  The perfect weight of a comforter will produce a perfect sigh and there will be no orange Cheetos streaks anywhere.  Textures and colours will be bread crumbs to moods and, if she wants, she will unfurl Poppies.  Me, I do not rush gardens, Poppy buds are never forced.  Her, she will always help the process.


a bent crocus
at the leaf tips
forcep bruises

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