Cape Jasmine
My mother recoiled at the scent of gardenias--or cape jasmines, as she called them.
There's a tradition in the Deep South
wherein the women wander around in cemeteries,
any old graveyard will do--
often bringing the younguns along--
the cycles and the circles never close, do they?
Gardenias were often planted near the graves--
they require little maintenance
and stay green all winter, blooming in early spring--
symbols of life in a somber place.
That, of course, is why she became agitated
when she ran across Cape Jasmines elsewhere.
Death should be confined to funerals and churchyards.
She preferred the sunny stars of daffodils.
She felt the same about the wind
when it made a moaning sound at the corners of the house,
Ghosts, she warned.
There's a large gardenia in my backyard
planted there by a previous owner.
Its perfume mingles with grass--
There are times when I inhale it deeply;
wondering if heaven smells like this.
And there are other times
when I feel like she's there
warning me of the wind and pretty things.
Poetry by William Hughes
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Written on 2026-01-03 at 01:46
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