In My Parent' Garden I am here in a jungle. Tall plants and weeds surroung my body and tickle my head. My seat is numb from the seven a.m. cold soil in my parents' garden. Three crab apple trees stand like guardians around the half-kept flower bed. They make me feel safe and seperate from the highway down the lawn. Soon, these decorations made by God will hibernate under the fallen leaves and snow. I'm a witness to this lavendar, this bunch of poppy, white phlox, pink and yellow yarrow, Autumn Joy, sedum, lemon thyme, mint, oregano, baptisia, holly hocks, iris, day lilies, liatrus, sage, globe thistle, rhubarb, chives, fox glove, and wild peas that flew in on a breeze. It smells as if I'm standing in the center of a spice farm in Zanzibar. This garden has power. It knows how to make me remember old senses. Globe thistle holds a scene from my childhood.
It rustles up the day when Poppa was stung in Wisconsin while fixing a windowpane. Bees love the thistle and will fight for it if a challenge arises. Poppa fell into a patch of these purple, round spikes and suffered some bee wrath.
Another flower that holds history with me is the Poppy. This flower is my birth flower and my mother used to bake chocolate cheesecake clothed in poppy petals for me. Evey growth in this small square of paradise makes lovely textures and patterns. This color stands out and this color hides in rows and circles. All of this comes from my mother's care, taste, hoe, and gloved hands. The garden stands by my father's shovel, wheelbarrow, water can, and concepts of class and beauty. I'm proud and secure here in my parents garden.