My Mother is from the North

My mother is from the north.
When she first saw a Carolina winter,
It startled her.
Blue skies, warm days between frosts,
People crowding grocery stores when someone said
That dire word: snow.
But most of all, more than the skies,
More than the warm, cloudless days,
The pansies confounded her.
Everywhere she went, no matter the weather,
Their bright faces peeped up at her.
From window-boxes and flower-beds,
From around mailboxes and trees,
There they were, in purples and yellows and blues and pinks.
My mother is from the north.
She thought that everyone had planted fake pansies
To make the winter more colorful.
Flowers did not grow in winter where she came from,
For the winters are cold and gray there,
And the sun is seen only rarely through the clouds
That blanket the sky, isolating everything
Until spring arrives to bring color and gaiety once again.
My mother is from the north.
She was not used to pansies living through winter
And peeking up at her through the snow.