Pumpkins in Paradise

When my brother Doug was a kid, he planted pumpkin seeds in Mom's prized flower garden. A few years back, I wrote a poem about that incident.

Mom planted

clusters of flowers,

from the edge of the driveway,

along its gently rising slope,

until it reached a plateau,

where it was crisply cut off

by concrete steps,

leading up from the garage door

to the long front walk.

Mom chose

colorful flowers:

vibrant, varied & showy —

fulfilling her vision

of reserved sophistication,

tastefully executed,

like adding expensive fur trim

to the collar & cuffs

of a plain cloth coat.

Mom’s fussy

flowery vision

might’ve been noteworthy on its own,

were it not

for my brother Doug,

who planted pumpkin seeds

at irregular intervals,

up & down, in & out,

Mom’s colossal column of color.

No one expected

Doug’s seeds to even grow,

but they did, profusely:

Orange, bulbous, shiny, orbs —

swelling grandly each day,

nudging their way to center-stage,

like dim-witted cousins

attending a wedding,

wearing Halloween costumes.

Mother may

have been angry.

(Perhaps she was.)

But the pumpkin-bumpkins

served the flowers well:

While the rocks of Kyoto

help make raked-sands sacred,

Doug’s scattered seeds

made Mom’s flowers smile.

(c) 2016