It's spring in England, and my mother visits,
and there is her readiness in colonial desire
like urgent rain--where squandered things
find great reception. Electronic billboards!
Gargoyles in Oxford! Museums are free!
Hunger satisfies easy when you're eager.
Until one day at the grocery checkout she sees
daffodils--papery, plastic-wrapped, "solitary"
not a "never-ending line," "dancing," or "gay."
And Amma--at least a third-generation learner
of Wordsworth's praise--is first silent in disdain,
her outstretched words rebound as if swindled:
"This? This is what he made such a fuss about?"
In her contempt, I hear comparisons--to the
languor of unkempt jasmine, lotus, plumeria...
the warm, unlocked softnesses of oleanders,
parijaths, ixoras... In her derision there hides
history's list of pain, the sharp bite of the ruler
when she didn't say English words correctly
so just know that you are disappointing too
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I first wrote about Amma's reaction here--so many years ago.
Picture is from Daffodil Hill at the Radiology Gardens earlier this week; they seem to have been bigger this time last year?
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