Flowers, Then In a plot beneath the dining room window my grandmother grew carnations, pink and white layers of lace smelling like the handkerchiefs she tucked discreetly up her cuff. On Sunday morning my father might clip one for the buttonhole in his gray lapel. To the east side of the house, beneath my bedroom window, my mother grew roses, her favorites the peach of a Florida sunset, pink curl of a conch shell. My grandmother fancied reds, bold and certain who they were, unlike her. I loved the yellows: summer sun, no school, and my special Davy Crockett shorts. On the bank outside the kitchen window, to the west, grew morning glories, blue of New Mexico sky, trumpets voluntary. When they opened, a hillside symphony. When they closed, no one could pry their secret music from them. To the north, where I roamed, blackberries, pokeberries, milkweed, ironweed. Gulley, full of poison ivy. Rocks in the creek bed, grapevines to swing across. Blossoms we trod on, some purple, some white, on our way wherever.