What My Mother Might Have Done
Carla Schwartz
The rhody babies sprout where they want,
where I never walk,
but where a meter reader might step
on them, alongside the house.
They are shin-high, but sturdy,
the deep green of seaweed,
proud, small replicas of their mother,
a single, bud poised to bloom.
My mother would have moved the offspring,
carved a careful hole around each new plant
and dug. The rhododendron branches
must have layered themselves.
You must wait until sufficient roots have grown
to untether them. Would my mother have known this?
Would she have severed the ties
before the saplings were strong enough?
