Mixed Bouquet

My mother is a tangle of daisies

               trampled by wagon wheels.

Each Sunday, she puts on her best

               dress and roasts a hen

for dinner. My mother is a vase

               of damask roses left on the altar.

She uses yeast to make bread

               for our table. My mother

is a morning glory climbing

               remnants of an old

barn. She heats up beets

               she canned last summer

and pairs them with fresh kale.

               My mother is a peace lily

in a copper pot. Her surviving

               friends deliver ham biscuits,

deviled eggs, and casseroles.

               They excavate her irises,

plant them in places they won’t grow.