On Mother's Day Eve, I cut my first rose

a poem

On Mother’s Day Eve, I cut my first rose.
Bleeding pink, not quite open, petals still tall and ripe,
just for me. A secret gift.
Sentimental, perhaps. I’m a sentimental woman.
Inside, I looked for a jar or vase, something to
keep it safe and whole, a bright bruise of color
on the scuffed-up table.
But my toddler grabbed it.
Small pudgy fingers snatched,…