If Mothers Were Flowers

by Lila Baumann



A girl gets sick of a rose. - Gwendolyn Brooks





When I think of my mother,

I don’t think of perennial flowers—



Bee Balm in late-summer, Swamp

Milkweed near the back pond.



Perennial (adjective): present at all seasons of the year



I don’t think of butterflies in the garden,

a set of bedazzled wings made for show



choir, or costumes belonging to a porch goose.

I don’t think of a front lawn,



raking sweetgums.



Perennial (adjective): persisting for several years usually with new herbaceous growth from a perennating part



I don’t remember that immaculate

suburban display—warm-toned tulips

photographed in the flower bed,



a porch where we’d count seconds

between lightning and thunder,



my bare feet pricked by brown, spikey balls.



I don’t remember the plastic tub that housed creatures

from the backyard—one that overfilled in a hailstorm.



Tadpoles and three-legged-frogs floated out into the flower bed,

got squished under rocks, left to die— little pink tongues



dangling out of their mouths.



Perennial (adjective): PERSISTENT, ENDURING



When I think of my mother, I think of the first

grade—the first time she left—but I don’t remember the day.



Perennial (adjective): continuing without interruption : CONSTANT, PERPETUAL



I remember the card I made on pink construction paper.

I drew a bouquet and a watering can. I wrote,



“If Mothers were flowers, I’d pick you”





back to University & College Poetry Prizes