ghosts in the garden

my great grandma had a favorite flower –
moss roses, or portulaca, small and
pink with hard-scrabble vines.
and my father’s rough fingers dug deep
into soil every year, dropping
shells into earth,
springing up corn and
tomatoes, pumpkins and
cabbage; flowers for a greater
purpose.
they are all there, still,
somewhere in the garden,
smiling in the earth,
as new seeds find purchase.

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