The old lady plants impatiens in her yard
And let them proliferate, out of control.
Her children tease her, affectionately;
For, they believe these blooms to be weeds.
Unbeknownst to all who know her,
The flowers mean the world to her;
In fact, she lovingly collects each variety–
Preferring their simple, commonplace beauty
To her children’s extravagant gifts
Of rare, exotic blossoms and greenery.
She still recalls those days after the war
When knocking on her door, he’d be–
A bunch of wild impatiens in his hand;
Oh! So beguilingly beauteous, his smile;
An impish glint in his flashing eyes.
She remembers, clearly, that moment
When, after a lengthy, vacuous absence,
He did visit her, once again–
Another bouquet of impatiens in his hand
And, this time, a request for her to be his wife.
Thus, glorious love flourishes, perpetually–
As long as her home is surrounded
By the flowers, reminiscent of her king.