The Most Beautiful Flower
Wanting him to take his dead flower
and go off to play,
I faked a small smile and then shifted
away.
But instead of retreating he sat next to my side
And placed
the flower to his nose
And declared with overacted surprise,
It
sure smells pretty and it's beautiful, too.
That's why I picked it; here,
it's for you."
The weed before me was dying or dead.
Not vibrant
of colors: orange, yellow or red.
But I knew I must take it, or he might
never leave.
So I reached for the flower, and replied, "Just what I
need."
but instead of him placing the flower in my hand,
He held
it mid-air without reason or plan.
It was then that I noticed for the
very first time
That weed-toting boy could not see: he was
blind.
I heard my voice quiver; tears shone in the sun
As I
thanked him for picking the very best one.
You're welcome," he smiled,
and then ran off to play,
Unaware of the impact he'd had on my
day.
I sat there and wondered how he managed to see
A self-pitying
woman beneath an old willow tree.
How did he know of my self-indulged
plight?
Perhaps from his heart, he'd been blessed with true
sight.
Through the eyes of a blind child, at last I could see
The
problem was not with the world; the problem was me.
And for all of those
times I myself had been blind,
I vowed to see the beauty in life, And
appreciate every second that's mine.
And then I held that wilted
flower up to my nose
And breathed in the fragrance of a beautiful
rose
And smiled as I watched that young boy,
Another weed in his
hand,
About to change the life of an unsuspecting old man.
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