The Sweetest Flower That Grows

The sweetest flower that grows
I give you as we part;
For you it is a rose;
For me it is my heart.

The fragrance it exhales
(Ah,if you only knew!),
Which but in undying fails,
It is my love of you.

The sweetest flower that grows
I give you as we part;
You think it but a rose;
Ah,me! it is my heart

By Frederick Peterson

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 its beautiful, too.
That's why I picked it,
Here, its 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 in mid-air
Without reason or plan.
It was then that I noticed,
For the very first time,
That weed toteing 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'd managed to see,
A self-pitying old 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 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 hand,
About to change the life,
Of an unsuspecting old man.

Thanks to my friend, Katia for passing this my way!

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