On this quiet rainy day,
memories I thought I’d tucked away
came back to life.
A flash of red and gold,
colors hurrying to unfold.
“It’s Indian corn,” Grandad said,
ears of yellow and red.
I thought he was being funny.
He smiled at me, sweet as honey.
“How did you make it red?
Why isn’t it golden instead?”
He said, “Each seed comes from its own flower.
That’s how the cob shows its power.
The flowers are mostly yellow,
sometimes white, sometimes a red fellow.
One cob can hold four flower colors,
five seed colors, purple and others.
It’s called botany, you see.
One day you’ll learn it, just like me.”
A sunny day in Grandad’s garden shed,
a memory he planted in this small girl’s head