Christmas Honesty

In springtime, at the bottom

Of my grandparents’ tiny garden,

I would marvel for hours

At a crowd of white and purple flowers:

Grandad called them Lunaria.

Together we would watch

As the pretty petals perished,

Leaving brown oval parcels.

There was always a strong breeze,

Blowing and rolling,

Peeling back the wrapping

To reveal a multitude of satin moons,

Translucent, round and papery,

Gleaming nearly white,

With an eerie silver light,

Rustling in the autumn wind,

Gregarious in the gaunt garden.

My grandad called them penny plants,

Self-seeding, shiny Judas coins.

Then, at Christmas time, they would return

In my grandmother’s centrepiece,

Cut and dried, they stayed in their urn

For the rest of the year;

While outside in the garden,

With their seeds wind-scattered,

They became winter skeletons.

 

©Kim M. Russell, 2015

Image found on www.birdsoutsidemywindow.org