Roses For Mama
I took a trip to the florist,
This past Christmas Eve morn.
And happened by a homeless man,
Who seemed lost, and forlorn.
He said: “Good sir, I need your help,
I don’t seek to deceive,
I need some roses for mama.
For it is Christmas Eve.”
“But they act as though I’m not there,
These florists must be blind!”
He handed me his change and asked,
If I would be so kind.
He’d saved enough for three long stems,
Not much of a bouquet,
But cheerfully he shook my hand,
And then was on his way.
Convinced that I’d done my good deed,
I bought some for my wife.
Two dozen beautiful roses,
For the love of my life.
Driving past the cemetery,
I saw that homeless man.
Kneeling beside his mother’s grave,
And so I parked my van.
My heart was broken by that sight,
I knew not what to say.
I mindfully approached the grave,
Offering my bouquet,
He said: “You meant those for your wif
They should not leave your hand.”
I said, my wife knows I love her,
And she will understand.
I placed them on his mother’s grave,
As tears rolled down his face.
And I was lost in the moment,
Suspended in that place.
Then from behind, a man inquired,
If I had been a friend.
I told him “no, I’m with her son,”
He did not comprehend.
When I pointed at the roses,
The homeless man was gone.
The stranger said, “You’ve seen him too?”
Was he putting me on?
He said, “I believe your story.
For I’ve seen him as well;
On Christmas Eve, six years ago,
A tale I rarely tell.”
He said there’s something I should know,
And quickly clarified.
“It was back in nineteen ninety,
When this homeless man died.”
He came here every Christmas Eve,
Until his final breath.
It’s a practice he’s continued,
All these years, since his death.
Sometimes it takes a miracle,
To make someone believe.
Mine came with roses for mama,
One special Christmas Eve.
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