Reflections

By Vernice Wineera Pere

The children break into my reverie.

Three pairs of cold bare feet

tumbling across the floor,

three pairs of eager hands,

wet and smudged,

and reaching happily

through my door.

Three sets of shining eyes—

and one bouquet.

Bedraggled, broken-stemmed,

brilliantly blue,

presented with due ceremony,

“This is for you!”

I am impressed.

I want to say

where are your shoes?

You will catch colds

wading through wet grasses

with bare feet.

I almost repeat

pragmatic words from long ago:

These will not last …

Don’t you know …

Now that they’re plucked

they’ll wither and die …

I wonder why such thoughts

so very swiftly flee

when three wet children

clamber round my knee

delighting at my sigh

of pleased surprise?

Then, when they’ve gone giggling,

and all is quiet again

I look at this clumsy bouquet

thrust in a kitchen cup,

reflected in the water spilled

upon my desk top.

I think

of all the gifts that I have earned today,

this handful of small flowers,

already drooping their perfect heads

upon their fragile stems

and wilting like my childhood days

which seem so very far away—

of all the gifts that I would wish to keep,

this gift of love has blessed my life today.