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.