Mom planted
Clusters of flowers,
From the edge of the driveway,
Along its gently rising slope,
Until it reached a plateau,
Where it was crisply cut-off
By concrete steps,
Leading up from the garage door
To the long front walk.
Mom chose
Colorful flowers:
Vibrant, varied & showy —
Fulfilling her vision
Of reserved sophistication,
Tastefully executed,
Like adding expensive fur trim
To the collar & cuffs
Of a plain cloth coat.
Mom’s fussy
Flowery vision
Might’ve been noteworthy on its own,
Were it not
For my brother Doug,
Who planted pumpkin seeds
At irregular intervals,
Up & down, in & out,
Mom’s colossal column of color.
No one expected
Doug’s seeds to even grow,
But they did, profusely:
Orange, bulbous, shiny, orbs —
Swelling grandly each day,
Nudging their way to center-stage,
Like dim-witted cousins
Attending a wedding,
Wearing Halloween costumes
Mother may
Have been angry.
(Perhaps she was.)
But the pumpkin-bumpkins
Served the flowers well:
While the rocks of Kyoto
Help make raked-sands sacred,
Doug’s scattered seeds
Made Mom’s flowers smile.
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