Roses For Mama

Roses For Mama
By Mark Spencer

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 buy roses for my mama.
On every Christmas Eve."

"But to them I'm invisible,
These florists must be blind!"
He offered up his change to me
And asked me if I'd mind.

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.
They wrapped thirty long stemmed 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 at that sight,
I knew not what to say.
I quietly approached the grave
And offered my bouquet,

He said: "You meant those for your wife,
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.
I was captured by 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 seldom tell."

He said there's something I should know,
And quickly clarified.
"It was back in nineteen ninety,
When that homeless man died."

"He came here every Christmas Eve,
Until his final breath.
It's a practice he's continued,
For decades since death."

Sometimes it takes a miracle,
To make someone believe.
Mine came with roses for mama,
One special Christmas Eve.