You blew in the door

   on a leafy breeze,

      a purple treasure

in your fist.

“Mom, these are for you.

         Put them in water.

I think they’re thirsty.”

You tumbled back outside,

coattail flapping,

boots too large and clomping.

I grabbed

my own coat

to follow in your wake.

     Why toil

 in the confines

       of this

furnished cage?

I could be

outside,

with you,

braving the wind,

         scuffling in the leaves,

            finding gifts of indigo

by the woodland edge.

Time is running out.

   Soon,

there will no longer be

a little girl

   with purple treasure

in her fist.