The Most Beautiful Flower

The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read

Beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow tree

Disillusioned by life with good reason to frown,

For the world was intent on dragging me down

And if that weren’t enough to ruin my day,

A young boy out of breath approached me, all tired from play

He stood right before me with his head tilted down

And said with great excitement, “Look what I found!”

In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight,

With its petals all worn – not enough rain, or too little light.

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 midair 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 like 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.

The Most Beautiful Flower was written on a day when I felt as if nothing could or would go right.  Everything from a failed piecrust to an unexpected raindrop seemed to depress me on that day.  I was angry at the world, angry at myself, just plain angry, and then for whatever reason (perhaps boredom) I found myself sitting in front of my computer, staring at an empty screen.  I don’t know what I was expecting to happen, but just as I’d done a hundred times in the past, I gazed up at my dad’s picture.  I could feel the tears warm against my cheek. It was just another reason to be angry. After all, I no longer had my dad, but then I caught the life in his eyes, and the smile on his face staring back at me from that picture.  Although I was too young during the time that photo had been taken, to recall the memory of that day, I could easily recall thousands of memories with my dad.  I knew right then and there that I had a choice, a choice to mope around or to be happy. 

The smile on my father’s face compelled me to choose the latter and so I wrote “The Most Beautiful Flower”.