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