mother and i,
she tried to be a grower but
didn’t get grandfather’s green thumb;
i am the grower and
i am the arranger, too;
that is from my father.
i arrange flowers that are words;
words that are images;
it was his gift.
my aunt says it’s apparent.
she says, i’m my father’s son;
my gilded tongue, sometimes forky;
the softened charm that is rarely refused.
not that i share nothing with mother.
mother and i, we can be alike.
we can be removed;
hidden behind the leaves and roses
among the thorns,
too threatening for curious fingers.
i can, not show the softened heart,
keep my shirt sleeves unrolled.
mother and i; we have only one sunbut very different worlds.