Planting Flowers You Will Never See, a Poem for Mother

I kneel in the dirt,
soil under my fingernails.
The smell of earth
reminds me
of time spent with you
walking in the woods.
You pointed and said,
"It's a Jack-in-the-Pulpit."
A strange green flower
became magical as you added,
"There's Jack"
pointing to the pistil
cupped inside the bulbous bloom.
"And there's his pulpit,"
you declared,
gently touching
the flower's body.
I was just about four.
Planting flowers
you will never see
somehow breaks my heart.