Snapdragon Fields

Snapdragon Field

Of late my mother
has quit
her midnight hauntings.

Now she
swings by
without notice,

a pesky mother‑in‑law
asking me
to listen and follow,

her voice lingering
long after
she’s gone.

“Thank you, no.
I think I’ll stay here,”
I tell her now,

though she waits
at the edge
of every thought.

Outside I see a girl
in the bright start of summer
picking Snapdragons in a golden field—

wearing a garland of souls
among the daylilies bright
she plucks,

while my mother
keeps watch
from somewhere unseen,

knowing, as I do,
that down the road
of the dandelions blooming

in gardens of stones
are the vines I climbed
to the top of silver oaks—

the child eager
to wave to all
who pass on by.