Snapdragons

During April Poetry Month I am writing a poem every even day of the month. Here's one I wrote for April 16








Snapdragons
There are snapdragons on my mother's table,
sent in a get-well arrangment.
They are wilting, the colors fading,
much like the woman they were sent to cheer.

When I was young she grew snapdragons in her garden.
She would bend over, her red hair shining in the sun,
and show me how to squeeze them softly,
to make their mouths open and close.
Standing on their sturdy stalks, the plump buds
snapped like dragons at play.

Now I look at these sad flowers arranged in a white basket,
hardly strong enough to stand on their own,
their lower buds withered and dried,
their upper buds can barely snap,
but I gently try each one,
anyway.