I found a tiny vase of daffodils—four
Just inside my kitchen door.
My mother put them there, I knew.
My mother, an angel of ninety-two.
One day the blossoms began to wilt,
They began to look like yellow silk.
And finally they turned paper-thin;
Just like my mother’s aging skin.
Thank you, mother, for still being here.
And bringing little gifts of cheer.