i draw flowers on chalkboards
during math class,
but I can’t get them perfect.
petals bent out of shape, shaky stems,
i guess my tears have never been
the best for watering.
slowly my flowers become wilted
– at the end I snap
and scribble them all out.
just disaster persists.
through dusty journals i learn
that my grandfather had a garden
in the mountains, full of
chrysanthemums and orange trees.
he spun perfume out of orchids
and gave the bottles to his children.
my mother’s has been lost to customs,
but i still smell the hope
kept safe in his breast pocket
and the tea he brewed faintly
on her clothes.
someday when i’m old
and wrinkled, i’ll sink to my
knees in the mud and dig
with my hands, fingertips raw,
and my childhood tears will blossom
into chrysanthemums and oranges
and perfect flowers with
perfectly–shaped petals and
perfectly–straight stems.
my own garden to bottle up.
will it all be worth it, in the end?
Leah Wu is a high school student in Chicago who has most notably won a National Silver Medal in the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. When not writing poetry, you can find her playing the tenor saxophone or spending time with friends