I met an old man this morning,
out on the street
he passed me by as the world began to stir.
He wore a fisherman's hat and old rubber boots,
though the ground was bare.
His eyes were full of promise
and a life well-lived,
gray hair peeking under the hat's brim.
He walked with leisure, slow steps,
savoring the morning.
He hummed to himself as he
walked along,
a melody I did not know.
But what struck me the most,
about this old man,
was the smile he had for the girl at his side,
who skipped and laughed and stopped to smell flowers.
She, too, wore old rubber boots that clunked against the street.
In her hand she held
a single daisy,
twirled it between her fingers,
and I smiled
because I knew that daisy had
a good place to call home.