for Ava

Today my daughter—
now twelve and already looking like a young woman—

stands with me at the edge of a field.
I tell her California’s mustard flowers

are an invasive species first planted
by Spanish colonizers
so they wouldn’t lose their way.

She tells me about the blue bowl
she made in pottery class,
that comet pieces and moons make up Saturn’s rings.

I point to the park on the other side of the road,
where small children climb monkey bars,
where we used to play every Saturday

and wait for the first evening stars to let us know
it was time to go home.
She says she is too old for places like this now.

All around us are blazing pink daffodils
and brilliant lilies of the valley.

– Natalie Marino