I don’t know flowers – 
their species or 
scientific classification’s – 
but I do know 
the sweet, soft aroma of the lilac, 
instantly offering a picture of my mother, 
enjoying the first fresh air of spring 
flowing through the screens of her front room 
while she watches the neighborhood’s goings-on; 
or the vibrant summer honeysuckle 
showing her standing in the kitchen of my childhood home, 
arms and neck glistening from the heat 
as she boils water for our garden’s corn; 
or the hint of lavender and jasmine 
in her favorite perfume 
still lingering on the clothes in her closets, 
as I fold them away for Goodwill. 
The pictures we displayed at her funeral were nice, 
but I prefer those that come 
to my mind 
and more 
to my heart 
through the aroma 
of the flowers she loved.