Tulips
My little son plucks
eight of them – seven baby
pink, one purple as a bruise –
he plucks with good
intentions, plucks with love
for his mama, plucks
them from the neighbor’s
front lawn, leaves
them in a bouquet
on our doorstep, hopes
this gift will pluck the corners
of my lips into a smile,
but it only plucks at my heart
strings, because his face falls
when I have to break it
to him gently that not every
beautiful thing he sees
is his for the plucking.