Three orange nasturtiums in an almost-
three-year-old’s small fist.
They were not picked from my flower beds,
as I have mantra-ed ad nauseum at her,
but from her own pot on the porch
where she may pick as she pleases.
I had assumed after two baths already today,
she’d been making mud soup again
out there, while I tried to wrestle diapers
on the babes — twin crawlers, who
have all the makings of streakers.
When I’d managed a split-decision victory,
I stayed down on the floor, beaten
by the day.
Head cocked to the side, she
presents them to me:
“I picked these for my precious mother.”
I rise then, try to find a vase perfect enough.