I’ve never been good at remembering the names of the flowers—or even at Distinguishing between blossom and imposter, between what should
Remain in the garden and what no longer belongs there—I already forget What these cornsilk flowers are called, maybe blue bonnets or violets,
At least I know what they are not: lupines—when I was a child, I thought Lupines held magical properties, or so I liked to believe—I no longer recall
Whether the lupines in our garden changed color every year, like Chameleons, or whether I just made up that story because I liked the idea—
Daydreaming about lupines certainly beat weeding—I can still recite a few Names of the flowers from northern New England—larkspur, loosestrife,
Lupine, Queen Anne’s lace, quilted beds of lilies of the valley spreading Cloying sweetness everywhere, white bells blossoming, softening our
Footfalls one May noontime when we are far from the place we call home.