This End Up

by Christine Adams Beckett

My toddler handed me a hydrangea,

Plucked from the bush prematurely,

And broke a stem from its rotund bloom.

She asked me to repair it.

“It’s like Zuzu’s petals,” I chimed,

As I thread the amputated blossom

Into the intact stem, given a welcoming slit

With My thumbnail and trembling

Pincer grasp, long since lost its childlike accuracy

Due to knowledge and caffeine.