I don't garden anymore: bad knees and a condo board that frowns on my messing with the common ground. But for many years I spent winters yearning over seed catalogs, springs making my husband till another perennial bed. Flowers are always beautiful, but flowers that survive made me think.

The whole of "The Perennials" can be found here. But this is how it opens:

The Perennials

At 40, I transplanted my mother’s peony

from her yard to mine. Feathery globes,

and at each center a drop

of blood. Like my mother,

I loved splendor I could

count on to return. I was 42,

when I first turned the dirt

for hollyhocks and bleeding heart,

watched them erupt year by year, spreading

in widening circles

around the old brown heart, 

I want to thank those who have already offered poem ideas--every one of them inspiring. I'm working my way through. If you haven't yet, but think you might be interested in joining this select group, you can donate here and send your poem request to gaildimaggio@aol.com.