Posts Tagged ‘flowers’




When we let it grow

a weed might just surprise us

with uncut beauty.


(c) 2014, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright




(a re-post)


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She talks to trees

and birds,

to flowers, bees

and dragonflies.

They like to hear


how beautiful they are

and then they whisper

their own story

and she listens

care fully.



(c) 2013, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright


.(revision of an older poem)

.Photo taken in 2010 with my old camera



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Tight-clenched bud

lets go

its knotty grip

and rigid reveries


yields its petals

to the pull

of sunlight

through the trees


all the while

Gaia smiles

and sends for



(c) 1977, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright



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I’m a stranger to this land.

Pray, what are these graceful creatures

with plush yellow blossoms

waving lightly

in the early afternoon?

Such a lovely garden you have.

But why are you cutting them down?


“They’re dandelions!”

you say with disgust.



I bid you farewell

and walk away

tripping on a tin can

in the street.


(c) 1991, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright


(a re-post)



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Earth Tones

Legion Park flowers


Summer loses its neon edge,

turns more to the gentle shades

of terracotta, celadon green,

and lavender gone to seed.


Gaia takes a weary breath,

gathers her spent offspring

into a hushed circle.

There she tells them stories

of blithering winds 

and biting snow,

and cold, cold, cold.

You must rest, she says.


Oh no, not yet, they beg her,

pointing to a shrinking

ray of sun.

And over on the hillock

there is one more splash of pink.


Gaia smiles and nods her head.

There will be time enough

for them to sleep.


©  2016  Betty Hayes Albright


(Photo taken last week in nearby park.)

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She pretends the sun will stay

and those foreboding shadows

will not grow.

The geese in V-formation

that she saw this afternoon

weren’t really flying south.

Wildflowers still dance

between the rocks

and butterflies still light

upon the phlox

as honeybees

still swarm the mint

and bumbles take the clover.

She hums a rosy little tune

and fills her watering can.


 © 2016  Betty Hayes Albright

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There’s still a tender scar

from the cutting of your grave

two months ago.

No matter, you would say.

You’ve flown into the springtime

where you’re planting bright impatiens

in the shady spots of trees

and hanging popcorn fuchsias

from the limbs of everywhere.

You see a million colors:

bearded iris, bright petunias

shades of greenery

puffs of petals

bobbing in the sun.


Back home I listen

to your favorite symphony.

The room fills with the scent of roses,

How’d you do that, Mom?  I ask.

No matter, you would laugh.


©  2016  Betty Hayes Albright


(This is for my mom who passed away peacefully on March 3rd at the age of 98.)




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