Each year I procure these cheerful little faces of newborn spring, brushed with velvet smudges, the simple sweet smell taking me down a flowered path to my childhood. When very young, I played with scoop and pail in sandy lands of nursery beds, where the earliest seedlings overwintered and hardened off to face a strange new world.
According to family lore, this is where my great-grandfather took his last breath, an immigrant from a war-ravaged empire who began a twilight rebirth in the land of his conquerors. I plant them by the front door to catch that inherited fragrance, to welcome in the newly budded breezes and fresh starts.
They found him in the pansies, already on his way.
*I planted this year’s pansies today.
I’m writing a poem every day in April as part of NaPoWriMo’s celebration of National Poetry Month. Won’t you join me in poetry?