Always an embarrassment, my father,
a bow-tie guy and president for Pete’s sake
of the Daffodil Society. So when he fenced
a corner of the yard and filled it
with yellow bouquets wilted and moldy,
with grass clippings and corn shucks
wafting an odor like a stinky old sponge,
it was another sad fact to hide about my family
until the dry winter day I saw steam rising.

With my best friend I jumped in,
made burrows, caves,
prairie dogs in a warm hill of decay
spreading chaos which my father
must have cleaned later.

Some gone days
like wilted bouquets
grow warm.


This poem first appeared in the One Good Memory series (Silver Birch Press ).
Used here with permission.