Again, a Flower
by Shirley Smith Franklin
Palm Sunday week is gray.
Gray drags on, nearly every day,
for the next two weeks.
'Must buy flowers' I write,
on three different grocery lists
scattered in my kitchen.
Drive intentionally
to a store with flowers first
thing you see, entering the door.
'Buy Three,' Teresa says,
'One to gift, one to sell,
to earn, one for your soul.'
But, selfishly, I skip
straight to the bunch for my soul,
tall daffodils, yellow and bright.
Hmm, where will I put them, at home?
My conscience gets the best of me
At the cash register.
I find my self behind
one like a downtrodden woman.
'I'd like you to have these,'
springs, unbidden, from my lips,
along with an inner lift,
as she takes them, speechless,
walks wonderingly away,
leaving flowers in my soul.
by Shirley Smith Franklin
Palm Sunday week is gray.
Gray drags on, nearly every day,
for the next two weeks.
'Must buy flowers' I write,
on three different grocery lists
scattered in my kitchen.
Drive intentionally
to a store with flowers first
thing you see, entering the door.
'Buy Three,' Teresa says,
'One to gift, one to sell,
to earn, one for your soul.'
But, selfishly, I skip
straight to the bunch for my soul,
tall daffodils, yellow and bright.
Hmm, where will I put them, at home?
My conscience gets the best of me
At the cash register.
I find my self behind
one like a downtrodden woman.
'I'd like you to have these,'
springs, unbidden, from my lips,
along with an inner lift,
as she takes them, speechless,
walks wonderingly away,
leaving flowers in my soul.
No comments:
Post a Comment