My father hated hollyhocks. How can you hate a flower. He never said why, but he did.
As children, we’d torment him on a walk or drive, exclaiming look! Hollyhocks!
I love them, but interestingly they are the only local flower not growing in my garden. Although my son-in-law Tim offered to plant some just this week, and I accepted.
The neighborhood is full of them, not much the worse for recent hail.
I wrote a tanka about hollyhocks. And then, in an act of synergy, Karla sent me one. I thought I’d put them together–written separately but in similar season and terrain.
and wait for rain
Santa Fe, the Westside
Eyes of the aspen
in bole, on limbs, are watching
of columbines into words,
hollyhocks into tanka
In Taos, Casa Encantada
Karla Linn Merrifield