The Flower

The flower rises from the ground;
A strong stem, feet on the ground;
Slim, curved leaves reach for the sky;
A blossom looks to its Father.

"Father," she cries;
"There is a fire all around me";
"The smoke rises, the sun fails";
"And I can do nothing."

"I have nothing to help";
"I am small, I have little water";
"I can only offer fodder to the flame";
"What use can I possibly be?"

With a cry, she begins to wilt;
The fires bearing close;
All seems lost;
Then, a teardrop falls.

A thousand shards of Hope;
Of Peace, Of Strength, Of Joy;
A thousand more shards of answered prayer fall;
The flames die, the flower looks up.

Sunlight passes through the clouds;
Illumination comes to the broken wood;
The flower stands firm, resolute;
"Why?"

"I have nothing to offer, why?"
A traveler passes by;
He pauses, He stops;
A brush of the fingertips.

A shiver, a shimmer;
The softest touch;
The flower looks up;
A smile.

"Look here," the traveler says;
"This flower has survived the flame";
"No doubt it is because of her beauty";
Another approaches.

"No," says the other;
It is because of her heart;
The desire above all;
To help.

"The beauty of this flower";
"The smile it shows us so brightly";
"It extends from the beauty of her";
"Heart."

They walk;
The flower stares up;
The sky is clear;
A Smile.

-Kenneth Kim
Sent on the Now Network� from my Sprint® BlackBerry