A MAGAZINE OF ZEN AND THE ARTS

My daughter
pressed some
daffodils—
and I laid them
on some nice
green paper
then covered
them with
clear and
sticky paper
and figured
she could choose
some paper
to slip beneath
it all
and decorate
some day.
Mom,
you put
them down
the wrong way—
she says later,
strong with
whine and
dignity.
O, I tried
my best, I say,
my face a
drooping flower,
my glass filled
to its lip and
spilling deeper
by the hour.