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 colours: 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 The 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.

 Author Unknown