stumbling, holding the hand of steady
I hear her laugh like the sound of
bells, happy against setting sun
and she gives clutching flowers
special-picked by little hands
to someone more able to keep
protected from steep hill peril
Understanding is a flood and I
wait for her come to find me.
running through the gate, little
hands once again grasp bundle
and with hands behind and smile
wide and eyes brimming with sparkle,
"Which hand, Mom?" She asks with
bursting voice and I point to that one.
outstretched and full of proud
she hands me bouquet of beauty
picked carefully among hillside green
each one chosen and pulled, for----me.
And as I think of all the roles I fill
or lack to fill. Or stumble into--
This is the one that really matters.
The one of flower-admirer.
I am here.