The Gift

I noticed
tight white buds
waiting to
burst forth.

I watched
when the

On a damp
day in
in the cold,
I met
the gaze
and silent.

Now the blossoms
sit on my
desk rescued
from the rain
and wind that
knocked it
to the ground.

The scent
a surprise,
an unexpected

. . .

To read a poem is to hear it with our eyes;
to hear it is to see it with our ears.
—Octavio Paz

I never know what I will find as I walk outside my door each morning. Sights, sounds, and textures never cease to surprise me. A younger me might have rushed past, never taking the briefest second to glimpse the beauty shouting at me to notice.

Life remains busy, yet slower—more measured and thoughtful. Is this what years of living reveal?

If so, I’m ever grateful that I finally took notice. Didn’t anyone  tell me to “stop and smell the roses?” That phrase rings in my memory. I ignored the admonition. Who has time for that?

In fact, who has time not to? Considering the vastness of time and the universe, our speck of humanity represents nothing more than a fleeting blimp on the timeline.

Somewhere in my growing up, I learned to reflect. No, that is not correct. I have always had an obsession with thinking, wondering, questioning, and listening to music only a soul can touch.

I will not let go.

pink red buds blossom on a single branch with blue sky and limbs in the background. Text: Poetry centers the heart. by Kathryn LeRoy

. . .

And always—

Be kind. Be brave. Be you.

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Photo: Cheerfulness Daffodils © Kathryn LeRoy