Hey, pretty petunia, old friend.
It wouldn’t be summer without you, you know.
Why, I remember when I was only three
how you lined the path to the dirt-floored cellar
where Aunt Maybelle kept her wringer washer,
your scent mixing with the fragrance of soap
as she washed clothes, and how kittens played
their games of hide and seek beneath your blooms.
That long you’ve colored my summers,
well over half a century now. And still you’re with me,
smiling outside my kitchen door. I drink in your purple,
share the morning sun, and smile, remembering old friends.