February’s frozen Wasatch sod
broke away under thrusts from
grandma’s spade,
and stiffly sweet peas from faded pods
between frosty clods were carefully laid.
“Why plants seeds under a foot of snow?”
I asked as her weathered hands
worked the row.
“The thaw will come in two months, you know;
perhaps you should wait until then to sow.”
“Glade taught me how to help sweet peas grow.”
Soon after the thaw a bouquet came–
a spring breeze stirred delicate
pastel hues.
Baby’s breath twigs graced the fragile vase;
sweet pea perfume whispered around the room.
All summer long I saw the bouquets
as they welcomed, consoled, and
brightened days.
“Couldn’t you keep some for yourself today?”
Over her shoulder I heard her say,
“God taught me to give sweet peas away.”
Cogito ergo scribo 