Onion Sprout
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Her old flowerbeds have been replaced
by new homeowners with black thumbs.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.
11 thoughts on "Onion Sprout"
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Thank you. This made me remember my Dad’s garden, and my Mom cooking chicken smothered with spring onions.
Times relentless march! What a resonating ending.
“Thyme’s” march, too!
Ok, no herbs were harmed in the making of this poem.
Thank you.
Oh, how delightful!
Get ready: a lot of poetry inspired by gardening endeavors are likely.
And thanks for the meal suggestion!
I have a few things to say about growing green onion …
Keep writing and thanks for the read.
I love this–that last line really opens up the poem to the reader in a mysterious way.
Wonderful poem, Tabitha. It takes me to so many places – the gardens of a life.
Lovely, last couple of lines are perfect.
So excited to see what you have for us this year! “Black thumbs” made me giggle 😂
Love this metaphor of gardening and family memories!
loving this gardening theme! unfortunately, i am the “black thumb”, but oh how i wish i wasn’t!
Love the pinch your head off line