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 mid-air 

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 in 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.

I smiled and watched that young boy,

Another weed in his hand,

About to change the life 

of an unsuspecting old man.

~author unknown