Yesterday, Blossoming by Noel Ullom (17, Ohio)*

Hydrangeas share a history
                               of tracing my family name.
My grandmother, the keeper
                               of breathing colors, introduced me once
to permanence: oranges & pinks
                               weaving tightly around her fingertips.
Her buds mistake green for canvases
                               and paint ecosystems upon their stems:
reds, blushing for the nearby man
                               and inheritance ruby rings

purples, grieving retiring skies
                               and chipping walls left far behind.
Blue ridges line yellow centers
                               of tempting nectar or buried stars;
she carved constellations with wooden wands
                               and arranged bouquets with fallen scars.
Hercules, Aries, Hydra, Orion,
                               she plucked men among the stems,
snipped and tossed the yellow suns
                               from aging petal rims.
Look here, she called,
                               see what trimming can save?
Hydrangeas share a history
                               of saving my family name.