In an effort to be tidy
they clipped forsythia’s golden wings.
She stands now, rigid and straight,
her flow surrendered
to the tyranny of row and square.
JDG
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aholdingplace 
When 6- and 4-year old granddaughters were here two weeks ago we played a game in the car to learn the names of redbud and forsythia. Whoever spotted either one would shout out the name and the other three of us would shout it in response. I told them that anyone who cut a forsythia into a tight ball or square should be arrested by the flower police. After that, when Allie saw one so deformed (literally!) she wailed, “Wee-ooo! Wee-ooo! Call the flower police!” Brynn, on the other hand couldn’t quite master the pronunciation of forsythia. As a result, I will forevermore silently shout, “Sophia!” when I spot that fountain of gold. Actually, I like that name better.
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poor girl!
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Oh how terrible. But what a wonderful little poem. Miss you. Claire
Sent from my iPhone
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