A bright pansy peace

For my mother,
going home was always a chore:
she was embarrassed by her mother,
and the roots from which she sprung.
But for me, it was a time of wonder:
Bright pansies in the garden,
beneath a perfectly climbable magnolia tree;
the scent of gardenias,
the hum of insects' wings
chirring in the background,
the breeze lifting
white lace curtains in the window
to reveal the fat blue hydrangeas
slumbering just beyond
my rose-covered wallpaper --
a feast of color, scent, and sound
that sang through hot summer nights
punctured every quarter hour
by the reassuring toll
of my grandfather's wooden clock.
Peace.


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