When we were children
My mother had a garden
wild as we
Full of bachelor’s buttons
heron’s bill, vining twists of morning glory
field madder and daisies
Sunflowers, snapdragons,  poppies,
Poppies, and, oh so many poppies.

Some passerbys would stop
And look upon her garden
And chortle as they claimed
“‘Tis not a garden
but a bunch of weeds –
Not much here to see
She threw the seeds
To the wind –
With no skill or mastery.”

Little did they know
How early she rose
To keep the weeds she wanted
To water, feed,
To chase the crows
So the blooms she loved
would grow.

On an evening stroll
My daughter –
hand in mine –
Breathed in the beautiful scent
of carefully cultivated roses
And turned and asked, still bent
“Why do we not have roses?
Do you not like them?”

And I remembered my mother‘s garden
And the roses she planted for me
When I, little, made that same query
And I remembered
How touched I felt
That she planted them
Just for me
How beautiful was each bloom
Plucked from its bush
But also how ugly it seemed
With all its wasted leaves and stem
Amidst the simple beauty
Of my mother‘s weeds.

So I said, “I love to look at roses
And they have a beautiful scent,
But I like my flowers wild –
wild and magnificent.”

And in my mind I thought
I like my flowers wild,
(Not groomed or bought)
No, I like my flowers wild,
like you, my wonderful child,
Well-fed, loved, and free,
free,
free.