Anthony Pitale

By Norma Paul

On my way to shake the pastor’s hand on
Mother’s Day, a little girl at church
handed me a miniature rose.
Small enough to park above my
kitchen sink, it bloomed there another
two weeks. Then I relegated the plant
to the back porch rail where it stayed
through June into October.
Suddenly a new bud made its presence known.
I brought in the rose, gave it a drink of
warm water, set it beside the purple orchid
on the pine living room windowsill.
One after another, three buds opened, peach in color,
bringing me a smile each morning.
With a fresh, hot cup of coffee, I
postpone the day, watching roses bloom.

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