As my son eats nasturtium petals
And the plant tendrils entwine the white pickets of the garden fence,
I remember my mother
And the orange flowers in their pool of leaves
Spreading from the blast wall of the air-raid shelter
Beneath the profusion of sweet peas that grew there,
White, lilac, pink and all shades in between,
And she would cut them for vases
To light the windowsills of our house.