It has become a roost, this house
passed on daily treks,
host to a flock, thirty strong,
of pink and white flamingoes.
Trailer-park-tacky birds gather
near an elegant formal garden.
Roses so fragrant in June
drivers open car windows
when passing by.
As the roses bloom, the flock
starts to migrate
around the yard after each mowing.
It adds a little whimsy
that breaks their plastic spell.
 
I begin to imagine
the owner's nostalgia,
how the birds might recall
a childhood now all but lost
or a favorite aunt
whose sense of style
came from a life less privileged,
born of thrift and the desire
for a bit of prettiness, some escape.
Or perhaps the birds recall
a mother, not unlike my own,
a poor farmer's wife who created beauty
as best she could, from the earth,
planting zinnias in circular beds
rimmed by tractor tires
Dad dug in for her
and tenderly painted white.
She would have loved flamingoes.

From Miracle of the Wine: New and Selected Poems (Grayson Books, 2012). 
Used with the author's permission.