Lilies of the Valley
My mother bought them
sometime last summer
from an old woman with nothing to live for
but the garden she grew.
And now they sit in a dirty little pot
in front of a house in shambles
that was once a home
to a family even more broken than that cheap crumbling pot,
where a few drooping flowers still manage to grow.
Persistent little bastards, aren’t they?
I still wonder how something can smell so sweet
When it’s as good as dead.