For the Family

They were every beautiful color the world had ever set right.

Red, Yellow, Blue, Green, Pink, Purple, Orange
All grown from the green and taught to worship the blue.

But how could I ever tell you what
I was worshiping? 

You,
You flowers,
Six-handed-many-mouthed
Beings of impenetrable soul and dirty knee,
You, 
Who that same day had only just let me show you how to make a mud pie, 
You,
Who nearby looked on, disinterested, but I knew better,
You,
who held the shovel and a discerning eye.

You who I would rain for,
You who I would kneel for,
You who reminded me not to be so sentimental when
They're only flowers after-all;

flowers planted carefully in that dry ground.

When I blink those flowers become forests and you run through them, 
Barefoot and starry-eyed.
You forgot their source, 
But it never really mattered,
Did it?

If you can, just find a way to let me know if what we really planted that day is growing.

By Erin Kuykendall

From the author:

I wrote this when I forced (due to $$$) to leave the family I lived with in Switzerland, where I was an au pair. On the last day I saw them, we planted flowers in the front yard.