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.