Flowers were her currency,
spent like a miser to pay for
her passage through the day.
Bunches of pink lilies saved
from bending to the ground with
their weight of heady blossoms.
The tiny spray of roses
so precious after this blight year.
The black-eyes Susans she knew
would wither with the morning
forcing her outside again with her
fist full of large bills: weeds to be
pulled, produce to be sorted, cats
to be fed. But these flowers,
her way of making change.