Poem for Mom

Picking Violets

I was a shy child

Alone a lot.

So, I would spend early afternoons

Just picking violets in the shade.

I would pick them until my small hands ached

From tightly gripping the bundle of stems.


They grew best

Under the spirea bushes

Where the sun couldn't bleach

The royal purple to pale blue.

Only the most perfect blossoms

Were chosen for the honor

Of adorning my mother's dresser.


I would take care to pick the flowers

At the very base of the stem

To make sure the blossoms

Could reach over the top

Of the small blue and gold vase

Used only for displaying 1000 violets.