I like watching my flowering mandevilla
plant find its way to its trellis and then wrap its
vines around the metal rungs and climb, climb, climb.

The plant exists in a perpetual growth spurt.

At least twice a day,
I check to see how much the plant has advanced.
By sundown, it usually 3 to 4 inches.

I make bets with myself.
By what date, will it make it to the top of the trellis?
Which vine will reach there first?
How much width will it gain in a week?

My hollyhocks try, but they can’t keep up.
Petunias trail and meander a bit—that’s about all.
The gladiolas also sport trumpet-shaped flowers,
but they’re not athletic.

I wouldn’t bet on the mandevilla, though,
in a Plant Climbing Tournament.
It could easily be outdone by clematis and wisteria.

Maybe you’re thinking,
“Doesn’t this person have anything better to do
than watch a mandevilla plant grow?”

“No, not really.”

There’s one bud on the whole bush.
Two weeks now—
one bud on the whole bush.
I’ve waited for the bud to unwrap, to bloom,
but no change—
It’s still firmly sealed.

For my first formal dance, my date brought me
a gardenia corsage.
The fragrance was so pungent,
I took it off my wrist and pinned it to my clutch purse.
Then I left the purse in a safe, remote location
until it was time to go home.

When I was with my husband and kids
at Disney’s Epcot in Florida, I saw a small
field that had been planted with gardenias.
I bent down to the ground and inhaled the
scent, took in the creamy white petals
nestled in dark, glossy leaves.
The flower had finally seduced me.

Now I tend my own gardenia bush in its
cobalt blue planter, and I wait—
but not patiently.

I make plans.
When I have blooms, I will float one
in a glass bowl.
I will wear one in my hair or
I’ll give myself a corsage and pin it on my chest.

I am waiting for my gardenias to bloom.

It was summertime,
a night we caught fireflies and
later released them.

I was only five—
it could have been my imagination—
about the moon winking and all.

Except …
It happened again when I was thirty.

It was a slow, knowing wink
a conspiratorial wink
a once-in-an-eon wink.

I knew it was real that time.
Because at thirty,
I was a woman of the world.

So, I winked back.

An empty soup bowl was placed in front of me.
I peered at the floral pattern in the center:
a purple iris, and a crimson rose against
gold-rimmed white porcelain.

I looked up.
A tall waiter ladled soup into the bowl
submerging the flowers.

Like an unbidden song, that scene gets replayed.

The flowers in the bowl.
The lifting of the ladle
The gentle splash in the bowl
The submersion of the flowers.

What kind of soup?
How did it taste?
Apparently, not relevant.

Just the flowers in the bowl
The lifting of the ladle
The gentle splash in the bowl
The submersion of the flowers.

Big dots, little dots,
colored dots, black and white dots—
Polka Dots–
the extrovert of patterns,
the province of clowns,
the domain of flamenco dancers,
the pattern named after a dance.

Polka dots are classic and playful.
They appear in bow ties,
skimpy bikinis, and Minnie Mouse’s dress.
Polka dot experts are able to mix
dots with stripes and plaids,
based on color and proportion.
But I wouldn’t try it at home if I were you.

Contemporary artist, Yayoi Kusama,
creates installations blanketed with dots,
to represent our place in the universe.
Roy Lichtenstein and Chuck Close have
doted on dots, pixelated dots.
But calling them polka dots is a misnomer.

The dots wouldn’t be offended, though.
Of all the patterns,
polka dots are the most good-natured.

I loved that car.
More than any other car I owned.
More than the burgundy Infiniti with the cracked windshield,
More than the black, supposed-to-be-turbo-charged, Chrysler and
more than the Jaguar with the Chevy engine.

I loved that car’s looks:
her camel leather interior; her lipstick-red exterior; her toplessness.
She was a flirt, a vamp.
Drivers swooned, crooned, “Nice car,” “Sweet car.”
She returned the compliments with a knowing honk.

And that amazing heater.
During many a Chicago winter,
it kept me warm as Swedish toast,
a remarkable feat for any car,
especially a convertible.

And the Red Saab’s sound system.
It played Springsteen’s Born in the USA album
so tirelessly, the upholstery knew all the words and
could sing along.

I especially loved that car on warm summer nights,
driving through an arbor of leafy streets, top down,
music playing, my head tilted back …
Just me in the Red Saab cruising along together.

1
The Backstory
I was out of vacuum cleaner bags.
Company was coming, and the carpet needed
cleaning.
Without its bag, the appliance was a useless,
disabled shell of its former self.
(I know because I tried vacuuming without a bag.)

2
The Seduction
I was forced to go to Ace Hardware on a
maintenance mission.
In housewares, the cover of a Popover Pan Box
caught my attention.
The picture of steaming, golden brown rolls spilling
over their non-stick containers, called to me, tempted me,
lured me.
“Buy me, bake me, serve me,” went the siren song of
the Popovers.

3
The Fantasy
I succumbed.
I bought the Popover Pan with its six linking, non-stick tins.
I bought it despite the fact I hardly cook and never bake.
But I bought the dream of preparing a popover and tearing
it open, releasing the steam, slathering its warm, chaste
interior with strawberry butter and then … devouring it!

4
The Update
I’ve become proficient at baking popovers.
I’m now known as The Popover Queen.
I serve friends warm-from-the-oven popovers with
assorted butters: strawberry butter, maple butter, herb butter

5
Further Update
My lust for them has not diminished.

Our lucky bamboo plant died.

Leaving in its wake a sense of foreboding
and dread

For over a year, our talisman had thrived.
But then, its luck ran out.

We tried a Chinese herb remedy, but to no avail.

We switched to Western methods and poured
coffee in its soil as suggested on the Internet.

But it did not revive.
Although for a day, it did look skittish.

Finally, the lucky bamboo plant was given a brief
service and interred in the back yard.

We were prepared to get another lucky bamboo plant
(for the sake of good fortune)

But we bought a money tree plant instead.

My trip is around the corner.
A little email told me.

Time to go fly in an airplane.
Time to get nervous.

Time to make arrangements for the
dog and get the dry cleaning.

Time to pack.
Time to make a list, and go get cash.

My trip is around the corner.

Time to worry about the weather and
the lack of corners in the sky.

My trip is around the corner.

Time to try to remember which part of
the plane to sit in to survive a crash.

Promptly, by May 31st of every year, for over twenty years,
I planted a border of shocking pink impatiens along a winding
hedge in my front yard.

When my friend, Ellen, died in March, leaving a husband
and two young children, I didn’t feel like planting flowers.

The bright blooms seemed like an affront or a celebration.
All I felt was loss.

By the second week in June, neighbors began asking me,
“Where are your flowers?”

“I haven’t gotten around to it,” I replied.

By the third week in June, I reasserted my refusal to plant.
It had become a personal protest directed at the Universe.

By the fourth week in June, I was confronted by Marni, my
eight-year-old next-door neighbor, “I miss your flowers,” she
said.

I relented.

But I was still mad at the flowers.

I went to the nursery and bought two flats of bedraggled,
reduced-for-clearance impatiens.

I placed the flats on the ground, next to the hedge, and scooped
out holes in the dirt.

Then bravely, I confronted the object of my rage—

An assortment of slightly-wilted-little-growing things.

I felt the need to apologize to the plants, but they weren’t the
type to hold a grudge.

With great care, I tucked the spindly sprouts deep in the ground,
pressed the dirt firmly around each base, and watered them.

They thrived.