Now We Will Speak in Flowers by Micki Blenkush I. As a child I let the train of my own focus roar across the tracks of my mother’s words when she returned from the garden elbow deep in dirt sprouting: clematis four o clocks hosta. Squirrels digging tulips, dogs trampling marigolds, even her confession to pulling daisies like common weeds a mumbled blur. Not until the day she showed me bright candy flowers I could cut into my own bouquet did I accept one name. Zinnia, my mind whispered as I bent low snipping off extra leaves, stroking the layered petals like feathers down a pigeon’s breast. II. Following her stroke, we brought flowers to my mother’s room. Sweeping gestures said all her smiling mouth could not. The first texts she ever sent to me come from the hospital. Simple love you’s floating back and forth across January nights. Soon she texted flowers across the distance. Gerber daisies in a pixilated square. Hopeful talk of morning glories germinated as her speech gradually returned. I walked the floor of my own house, gripping the phone, straining to understand. When I asked how deeply to plant the four o’ clock seeds she gave me last fall, their name sprang like a reflex from my mouth. Gyroscope Review 25 !