We packed our lives into the back of your truck

and drove two thousand miles

back to the only home you'd ever known.

On the bayou you ate crawfish

and god how I wished I had never become a vegetarian.

Here, whatever you came carrying

fell to the ground like Creole swamp rain.

Uptown you could watch the jazz notes float

from porch swings to sidewalks

of little girls playing jump rope and hopscotch,

to old women skipping rocks

across the gulf of the Mississippi

like heart beats they forgot they had,

while mid-city trombones

wrote love poems in lonely men's ears.

For a year we were gardeners.

"No, Andrea, yarrow doesn't grow here,

imagine a womb full of water,

plant like you would plant a daughter,

name her Iris, Rose, Magnolia, Gardenia."

You could hold the soil between your fingers

and smell gumbo and harmonicas.

Could smell po-boys and cathedrals on the same block.

"What do ya mean, you don't talk to strangers?

Come inside and see a picture of my son,

he raises hell, but he's a good one..."

Iris Rose, Magnolia, Gardenia,

when I heard of Katrina

I thought, "The flowers, save the flowers..."

I never thought for a second

we wouldn't save the people.

- andrea gibson

Yarrow