We shouldn’t ever pluck them —
They endure so few days.
Their rows bow each stem
Just how much love weighs.
My wife’s come from a garden
Her mother tended for years.
She would beg your pardon
To say: “Not like blood, but tears.”
I watched my daughter draw
This picture for Mother’s Day,
Obeying her own inner law
To paint what only she can say:
Three mothers’ hearts in one
Sweet flowering of passion.
