Tangled Garden
Onions push through
a pride of trumpeting
daffodils.
They were all
just bulbs
when my mother
planted them.
Forget-me-nots twine
intricate designs,
a fantasy in blue
between red and green
runner beans.
Every night,
I pull them apart
with clumsy fingers,
yet they knot again,
like tangles,
fresh each day,
in my daughter’s hair.
rogermoorepoet 
This is sweet!
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Thank, Meg. It’s a golden oldie, another rediscovered poem from the ancient archives. Very light and bright and delicate.
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Yes, indeed! Lovely!
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