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# She Will Buy the Flowers Herself
- URL: https://dianaludwick.com/she-will-buy-the-flowers-herself/
- Published: 2026-07-11T23:36:57.000Z
- Updated: 2026-10-24T20:07:00.000Z
- Description: "She Will Buy the Flowers Herself," an observational poem on opportunistic fate of line order on one's luck procuring perishables, and an homage to Virginia Woolf, while acknowledging changing tides of clientele demographics, written Saturday, July 11, poem 192 in a series of 365 poems written by Di
- Author: Diana Ludwick
- Tags: 2026 Poetry Challenge, Generational, Geriatric Millennial, Humor, Long form musings, Nostalgia, Of Place, Poems, Reminiscing, Uncategorized, Unserious, Blooms, Bluegrass band, Bouquet, Cabbage, Empathy, Farmers' Market, Flowers, High Summer, Jamming, July, Locals, Main Drag, Manhattan, Milk Crates, Mother-Daughter dynamics, Mrs. Dalloway, Parlsey, Privileged, Radishes, Rutabagas, Saturday Morning, Snapdragon, Stained Glass, Summer, Summer People, Summer Person, Teen, They are a Changin', Times, Tourists, Town Hall, Townies, Virginia Woolf, Visitors, Yarrow, #Migrated-1792872215677, #wp, #wp-post, #Import 2026-10-24 20:03

Saturday morning and  
the bluegrass trio is jamming.  
Not yet ten, but the town hall lot   
overflows with locals and tourists.  
We make quick progress  
moving market stand to craft stand   
from back to front of the market.  
As we hit the farm tent   
closest to the main drag,   
we find a serpentine line.   
My companion and I,  
we take our chances   
and stand behind   
the last one standing   
in the queue.  
I feign patience;   
the sun is creeping above.  
I mentally weigh the benefits  
of popping out of line  
to get a lilac latte  
but rule it too much caffeine   
for my inconsistently-slept self.  
But my daughter   
is intrigued,   
enraptured by the   
pull of the produce,  
and so now must be I.  
  
So, I stay in line;   
I hold a six-pound   
head of cabbage  
against my hip   
like a hefty babe.  
I let the previously purchased  
bunch of pinky-blush radishes   
and their gritty, moist greenery   
graze my thigh,   
leaving damp imprints.  
Slowly, the line trudges ahead.  
After a spell, we gain access   
to rugged plastic milk crates   
on our right flank  
spilling a plethora of parsley  
and an avalanche of rutabagas.  
  
My kid has her eye   
on a specific bouquet;  
a smattering of wildflowers   
gleaming in the sunlight.  
The woman in front of us,  
she has similar goals:  
she hoists the prized flowers   
from the white bucket,   
dripping translucent holding waters   
on the makeshift counter.  
"'*She will buy the flowers herself,'*   
It appears," I muse, quietly.  
Meanwhile, my child groans,   
a little too loudly,   
"*Noooooo* those are miiiine!"  
  
As the bouquet bandit   
brings them to her nose  
it is clear she is living out   
a bucket list moment  
with her nearly thousand dollar   
leather-trimmed raffia tote  
and her solid gold Cartier watch  
and her 'quiet elegance'   
Loeffler Randall raffia   
two-band buckle slides.  
  
I take in the whole of her,   
selective sole to coiffed bun  
and I see in her,   
a new demographic.  
She feels different, heterogeneous,   
a polished gem amidst   
a stretch of granite pebbles.  
  
She feels   
not of this place,   
separate.  
This is not the woman   
of my childhood Julys.  
Times, they are a changin'.  
This slim, toned,   
responsibly sun-kissed woman  
is not a townie,   
nor someone   
who works with her hands.  
Unlike the farmers   
and fisherpeople   
who created this place.  
  
This is surely a visitor,   
a *Summer Person,*  
someone playing a role   
in an imagined Nancy Meyer film  
for a weekend,  
perhaps maybe a month.  
  
But mostly, I calculate,  
registering the weave   
of her designer linen dress,   
the dangle of her hefty  
paperclip gold bracelet, that  
this is not someone   
who would be   
open to negotiation.  
  
I lean down, half a head,   
to my growing teen,   
and I say,   
with all the empathy   
and knowing   
and mutual grief that  
I can encapsulate   
in so few words:  
"They're gone."   
I whisper.  
"Find a new one, Love."  
  
As the line slugs forward,   
my shopping partner   
is in arm's reach   
of the next bin of blooms.  
My not so little one  
scoops up a brilliant chaos   
of yarrow, pink snapdragon,   
sunflowers,   
coreopsis and marigolds.  
Her smile returns,   
the technicolor frenzy   
bouncing stained glass shadows   
off her throat.  
  
"*THESE*!"   
My daughter declares, definitively.  
It's hard to question   
her demonstrative commitment.  
I applaud her ability to overcome   
the tragedy of losing her posies   
to the lady with perfect nails   
and a distant gaze.  
  
We wend our way   
through to the cashier,   
while I surreptitiously snap photos   
of unsuspecting patrons  
to fuel my creative process.  
As I zoom in,   
I realize The Change   
is embedded;  
endemic, maybe.  
I capture a trio   
in summer brights,  
all gold wedding bands  
and podiatrist-approved,   
*but make it fashionable*, sandals,  
and totes and satchels that scream:  
*I am succeeding at blending in!* 
*I'm not from Manhattan!*  
  
By the time we make it   
to the intentionally humble pay stand  
I am grateful to have the option  
to exchange a flick   
of my Apple Watch wrist   
for this fistful of field  
and all too soon, we are back  
in a stuffy SUV,  
contemplating our next quest.  
  
Perhaps we will try our odds  
at the tag sale down the coast?  
The breeze feels right;   
the winds foretell   
of a future success.