We dug the poppies from Laly’s garden,
our neighbor in her nineties
who went first to the Wentworth
then a nursing home
then the ground.
She taught our daughters
names of flowers—
portulaca, dahlia, delphinium—
padded along brick paths
helped them cut bouquets
to give me, taught them
potato bugs eat the roots,
never step on your dirt.
Laly gardened spring, summer, fall,
wintered in seed catalogs.
Then she was gone,
her grandson planned to xeriscape,
said take whatever you want.
We dug unusual colored poppies
double-petaled daisies,
orange day lilies
to line our south wall.
Her grandson left
her garden waist high weeds,
her place sold. New owners
lay down sod.
Jumble of poppies blooms
now in my garden—scarlet, coral, peach,
amethyst. Our girls leave home.
It’s me, their father, and the poppies,
ending and beginning.
© by Laly’s Garden.
Used with the author’s permission.
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