American Life in Poetry: Chiller Pansies
I have irises that have been handed down through my family over the generations, being dug up again and again, moved to another house, another garden. Here's a poem about that sort of inheritance, by Debra Wierenga, who lives in Michigan.
Your pansies died again today.
All June I've watched them scorch and fall
by noon, their faces folding down
to tissue-paper triangles.
I bring them back with water, words,
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