He Gave Me a Dahlia

Strangers, we met on a walk through the neighborhood,

going in opposite directions,

a dog with him, me alone.

“Hello,” we each politely murmured;

we noted the weather, his dog sniffed my shoes,

and we started to move on, but…

have you seen my garden, he asked,

just two houses ahead of you?

Oh, yes! I said, and I thank you for it;

it is a delight.

I smiled and started to walk on.

But you must see the newest dahlia!  

And, grinning with a quiet pride,

he turned himself and his little pooch around

to walk in my direction, just so I would be sure 

not to miss the newest garden wonder. 

*

I oohed and aahed with him,

snapped a picture or two, thanked him again,

and said my good-byes.  But not so fast! 

Pulling a garden knife from his pocket,

he insisted on clipping for me

a dahlia of my choice.

*

A stranger.  Offering me a flower

from his garden.  A dahlia that sits now

in a glass on my kitchen table.

I look with wonder at this purple beauty;

graciousness between strangers

in a world of so much fear and distrust,

courtesy and kindness not forgotten

in a culture filled with so much vitriol

and hate-filled speech.

This dahlia sings for me

the hope of what can be,

and I am stilled.

He gave me a dahlia…

and so much more.