Every morning we heard her bell.

It is La Florista on her parti-colour triciclo.
I am four years old, my mother

and I always go out to welcome her.
She looked Japanese but with coppery

skin. Wearing a straw hat, she always arrived 
with a smile. She came in winter too,

but in my memory La Florista brings
mornings with the sun warm on my skin. My mother,

a young woman as vivacious as the flowers,
carefully selects – chrysanthemums one day,

gladioli another, some days roses, 
some days carnations. I watch fascinated, marveling

at this ebullience in colour. Before La Florista leaves
she makes a small bouquet from oddments with short stems,

passing it me, smiling, saying, for you to give
to Saint Martin.Then she rides off on her triciclo,

calling out her farewell, and I watch her go.


Poem translate from The Spanish by Carol Jenkins.