Thursday, January 22, 2015


By Beatrice M. Hanson

The Hollyhock amazes me,
I speculate to what degree
It will grow against the old

stone wall,
Sometimes seven or eight feet tall,
Before it starts to flower.
Each separate stalk displays its buddings,
The blooms come, alternating every other one.
And as they die are deftly twisted,
As tho an unseen hand existed
To determine their hour.

Nature has its way of knowing
When time is due for another showing.

Blossoms climbing up its ladder,
Nod to everyone who passes.
Then thet are no more.
They leave their wealth
All neatly packaged,

Like copper pennies in a packet.
And when they,re brown
And aged by sun

They break loose from the fold,
To fall beside the Mother stalk,
And scatter all their

summer gold.