Posts Tagged ‘gardens’


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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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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Underneath the frost it turns

hidden in a fog it churns

winter snaps its coiled whip

cracks the ice but holds its grip.

It wraps the trees in shiver beads

chews on shadows, spits out seeds

gracing gardens flocked in sleep

waiting for that northward leap

of the wandering, prodigal sun.



© 2014, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright 


(Note: For others like me who didn’t realize there are both positive and negative meanings of prodigal, the intended definition in this poem is #3 in Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary – “yielding abundantly”.)

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