Defying the somber shades of dead in a Midwestern Winter,
when most everything surrounding the small, plexiglass world
was limp and lifeless,
hidden beneath thick, mean layers of snow and ice.
green was something you could see,
smell
and touch
in Mom’s greenhouse.
Stepping down into its steamy realm
was like discovering a distant jungle.
Moist.
Pungent.
Earthy.
Exotic.
I’d sit on the cement stairs,
arms hanging over the metal railing
moist from the humidity.
Galoshes and socks dangling precariously.
Watching Mom dig her hands into a soily concoction.
Inhaling strange, sweet smells
of bone meal and blood meal.
Manure and lime.
And life.
Nurtured with the same intensity Mom tended her flock.
Passionate and determined all should flourish.
Cultivating her offspring with a unique and fertile mix
of love and cynicism,
melancholy,
curiosity
and eccentricity.
Dog-eared Stories by anne celano frohna 