When I Get Impatiens
by Elaine R. Winkler
At the Farmer’s Market I glide past
the trays of impatiens--not white,
not pink, not pink and white, not red,
not fuschia, not double blossoms--
until I reach orange, yes orange,
my favorite color,
the shade of gorgeous sunsets.
Then I stop and fill my cart.
I take home a whole flat
of little orange plants.
Some go into large pots where
they will expand like yeast,
and several into the big kettle
under the plum tree--
the kettle that is actually an industrial
reject dragged out of the river--
where they will grow taller, wider,
until, by September,
my plants will rise up
like a flaming brazier,
high and full, blazing
under the autumn sun.