We stole the fresh spring roses for our mother
when the Highland Farmer’s Market was closing,
and there was a rush to leave as rain fell 

upon the crowd. The thorns weren’t trimmed, 
and I cut myself cramming a dozen flowers 
in my satchel to make a proper table setting

knowing if I hadn’t tried, it wouldn’t have looked 
so fine. I thought of her smiling, secretly wishing 
they were carnations, but these stolen blooms

so blazed of red at dinner, she beamed with pride, 
for her sons had spent the last of the lunch money 
on her!