Snapdragons transport me
back to Father’s gardens –
the pleasure of pinching
delicate floral lips
Forbidden, was I
tiny feet banished from
tiers of ordered colours –
how he worshipped those rows
Hours spent on knees,
as if in prayer… attention
lavished on nurturing growth
while I shrivelled on sidelines
Longed to dig beside him,
sully my hands and share
his passion, ignorant of
an inner drive to weed
Felt only walls of separation
the coldness of perfection,
so in my wilful way,
I rebelled against taboos
On tiptoe, stepped between
the bobbing arrangements
marred the well-tended soil
and pinched the snapdragons.
(Snapdragons first appeared here in March, 2018. Edited for this edition. Art my own)
One Woman's Quest 
Such vivid imagery here, VJ, and I always love hearing you read your poetry.
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Thanks so much, K
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Very creatively written. And I remember playing with Snapdragons which I thought had such personalities!
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Yes, they did! Thanks
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Loving this! It’s real poetry, which we don’t always get in this day and age (and even I’m guilty of doing this). This is just perfect and unexpected movement from the start of the title. Awesome!
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Thanks Benjamin. Always appreciate your feedback
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This is a very hard-hitting use of metaphor. That poor child . . .
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Thanks Liz.
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You’re welcome, VJ.
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As children, my siblings and I were put to work in my mother’s vegetable and flower gardens. She was a free spirit when it came to gardening, pretty much letting growing things spread where they wished. And the vegetables and flowers loved her for it. We children learned a lot from her, chief, I think, how to grow our own food.
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That is excellent! What an example.
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memories experienced in your fathers beautiful garden so filled with sadness and relatable to the tennis courts I shared with my father VJ💗
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Interesting, Cindy. So many ways to feel locked out.
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Yes, indeed! 💗
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Yes this solemn poems brings back memories and poignantly expresses the heart of a gardener like my mother. Long after her death, the beautiful azaleas she planted testify to her love, care and nurturing.
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It is a gift. Thanks.
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You’re welcome 😊
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A childhood memory and emotion well captured in your poem.
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Thanks Heather
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You’re welcome.
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This is a wonderful poem, VJ. But it does make me sad, for the little girl (?)(you?) who felt secondary to her father’s passions. I especially liked this line: ignorant of /
an inner drive to weed
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Thanks Julie. A child can’t see the weeds that plague a parent. I could never understand why my father remained emotionally distant. Of course, I do now.
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And that, friend, is a blessing to you. All the best!!
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Good morning VJ. I loved this. Snapdragons were my Paternal grandmother’s favourite flowers…..a place where I was allowed to be more free. However my Mother, an exceptional gardener, was like your father a perfectionist. Edges had to be perfect….and I was rarely ever allowed to help out in case I messed things up. Consequently my own gardens are wild and free…….and so good does come from all situations:). Enjoy your weekend.
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“wild and free” – definitely how I prefer my gardens. Thanks so much.
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