I grew up in a sepia world where
growing flowers was almost vulgar.
My mother had irises
the whole length of the long drive,
milky-white to purple-black.
Yellow ones, and tiger lilies.
A crape myrtle beneath my bedroom window
that perfectly matched the priscilla curtains.
It was my favorite shade of pink,
passionate instead of timid.
In the back yard beneath the cherry tree
her casual nod to country living,
peonies in a white washed tire.