NaPoWriMo Day Twenty-seven

I saw the twists of lilies of the valley coming up by the diner this morning and remembered the side yard of my paternal grandparent and my father’s aunt and uncle’s house.

Lilies of the Valley

By the steps, bound with wooden planks,
whorls of leaves appearing suddenly,
fiercely and unreasonably optimistic.
In another side yard, years ago
these same pointed spikes of green
equally dogged and determined and light
filled a barren yard where in summer
the ancient catalpa would cast darkness
so complete, no grass ever grew
but in April and afterward these leaves
arise, an undisturbed tradition, rising
to provide for may day and mothers day
the most fragrant and cherished bouquet.
Here, in my own yard, they endeavor
cheered perhaps by daffodils before them and
holding within those tightly twisted leaves
everything they need to delight the nose
and fill glasses on windowsills everywhere.

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