My mother spoke to me in terms of flowers

 

She spoke to me in sunflowers,

Tall, strong, and always reaching upwards

 

She spoke to me in the stem’s of wild garlic,

Fingers pointed to hidden treasures and praying mantises

Camouflaged like a mother’s love in the voice she uses to lull her baby to sleep

 

She spoke to me in blooming Hydrangea bushes,

Heavy with a blue as bright as my grandfather’s eyes

 

She spoke to me in Lily of The Valley,

Tiny white hats for the fairies

I knew trekked through our garden in the hidden warmth of late August nights

 

She spoke to me in yellow roses after dance recitals

She spoke to me in black-eyed susans on the first day of kindergarten

And pink tulips drawn on flower pots

Gifted on Mother’s Day

 

She spoke to me in tiny pink gloves and miniature garden shovels,

Showing me at a young age how even the smallest hands can uncover a fresh green bud,

Showing me how a little bit of time and a whole lot of fresh air can lead to a whole world of promise

 

My mother found terms of endearment right in our own front yard

 

She spoke to me in lessons

Tucked under the leaves of wild strawberries

Hidden in the buzz of ladybug wings

In words as soft as the lamb’s ear beside our front doorstep

 

My mother will always speak to me in lavender buds

Blown in ocean breezes and blushing from bumblebee kisses