Her directives may have come

at the beginning of every garden
-ing season: “If you’re not absolutely
sure it’s a weed, ask me before
you touch it.” She controlled the
garden gloves, the dandelion digger. 
She threatened to “pinch your head off”
if you grew out of line, and her roses
were many and mindful, her peonies
blushing with color. 
 
The discipline of keeping extended 
family in bloom is a year-round effort. 
 
She has passed and
her grandchildren have gone wild. 
Her old flowerbeds have been replaced 
by new homeowners with black thumbs. 
 
It’s been countless seasons since my last visit–
but when my partner’s daughter
pulled an onion from the bed, 
there we were, under that Colorado sky again.