Zinnias are like some special kind of saint
smiling in the face of my transgressions.
They forgive me when I don’t water them
though the Kansas sun beats down like hell.
They accept it when I uproot them
to some godforsaken spot I need to brighten.
They keep face when I cut them down in full bloom
and let them slowly wilt on my sunroom table
while the cat nibbles at them
and the vase water begins to smell.
They even seem to nod their approval
as the compost pile becomes their final resting ground.
I see some now
from the front porch swing.
They are cheering a spot
in a made-over bed,
their yellow, orange and red petals
barely faded
by dust from the road
and I have little to offer back
save the salvation they give me
on this late July afternoon.
(Elder PrairieTalk)
(More information about PrairieTalk (Ann Carter), please see her website: annlcarter.com)
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2 comments:
Ann, your poem brought back memories of my mother’s zinnias which never failed her. Even in the hottest August we had flowers in vases in the house. I feel badly that we teased her so much about those zinnias that served us all so well.
I love zinnias for the same reasons that this poet does...thank-you for your love of zinnias and your courage to admit your not-so-caring at times attitude toward them. Such a fun poem!
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