Pinch the bud like this,
my father tells me,
his calloused hand guiding mine
to the joining of leaf and stem.
I stiffen at his touch but obey
as I’ve learned to lie still
when he opens the door to my room.
I pluck the knobby growth
between two fingers;
Good, he says approving
and lets me prune
the next two rows myself.
I move with care
among his prize chrysanthemums,
their gaudy blossoms large
as my baby’s sister’s head.
They stand taller than I,
these favored children,
stalks straight as rulers,
my father training them
when they were small.
They bloom for him
like obedient daughters
tethered to silence.
A Southern California native, Lynda Riese lives in San Diego with her husband and
new rescue dog Wesley, whose joy is chasing crows and ducks that visit their backyard
pool. In love with words, she works in both prose and poetry and has published in
Onthebus, Calyx, Poet Lore, and other small press journals. An antique dealer,
she buys and sells vintage and antique jewelery, loving the thrill of the hunt.