Standing in a row, paralleling
the blacktop road (hot and
sticky for summer bare feet),
four of them screening
in pink and green, enticing
the child’s fingers to pinch
the buds to pop the flower
open. No one minded; she’d
watch from the window
remembering the five-year-old
girl walking home
from the cotton mill
and picking the crepe myrtle
buds to pop them open.
This poem is submitted for Open Link Night at dVerse Poets. The links will be live at 2 p.n. Central time today.
Thanks to Nancy Rosback at A Little Somethin’ for suggesting a series of poems on growing up in the South.
One of the things I have missed in Santa Barbara is the plethora of crape myrtles that colorized 'southern' CA when I was growing up. This is lovely and I look forward to more in the series.
ReplyDeleteWonderful theme idea from Nancy.
ReplyDeleteI like that interjection of the memory of the child; it places the poem in a tender place.
As beautiful as the crepe myrtle itself . . .
ReplyDeleteThanks for sharing, Glynn.
Blessings!
Mine are blooming this year after three years of drought - the trees are tall and they form a cascade umbrella over the yard in their fluted pinks. I would not begrudge anyone who could reach them a pinch.
ReplyDeletewhat a beautiful memory they engender...we have several at my parents home...they are beautiful trees...
ReplyDeleteI love this :-) thank you.
ReplyDeleteAnd to think that there is to be more gives me much pleasure.
This is really, really great… :)
ReplyDeleteI agree. really really great...!
ReplyDeleteAhh the simple beauty of things. Love it.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful, what a great idea!
ReplyDeleteimages - from the mill to flowers...
ReplyDeleteI never grow tired of looking at them --
ReplyDeletebtw; I don't remember them from childhood at all -- doesn't mean they weren't there, I just don't have any clear memories of them. The dogwood, yes...