Dirty hand, fresh flowers.

It was that sort of day
where the chaos of children's
schedules, assignments,
drop offs and pickups,
to-do lists and errands
grab at the efficacy of the mind,
tempting
it to bend elsewhere and forget something but
as unnerving as a day like
that can present itself to be,
it is also a day where what is
really at risk of being
tragically overlooked is simply:
perspective.

this lesson was delivered in the form of a
literal boom with a heralding thunderstorm
crackling it's cadence of impending doom
her child at the ball field
stuck waiting for his mama across town

she races forth to just keep on
keeping on, rescue her boy
from that which she cannot
define until,

out her windshield
she sees the most beautiful thing
in the entire world and remembers
to stop. to live. to dream. to be.

a homeless man trudging the
sidewalk who, daily,
walks and walks and walks
these peaceful streets of her town.
she seems him nearly everyday
his tattered dirty clothes;
a knit cap storing years
of thoughts and yearnings.
yet today, in this rattling rain,
he walks on.

In his hand?
Fresh spring flowers,
Tightly gripped. Held
with a purpose and a pride.
A discordance so grand
and magnificent
she is brought to instantaneous
tears. This man is alive.
She is alive.
Living....

With this vision,
heart and mind become
fully whole again.
Life is splendid.
She owes him so much.
We all do.