Expectations of our lives are many and strained, those caulis moments of shared indifference are timed weeds in the garden of human experience, shallow of meaning, breathless in compassion, seedless in deed.
Choices heeded in battle, in a common walk, a stroll through the neighborhood, peering from ones stoop as if the world was at curbside and nothing else waited beyond the painted street scene.
It is those thoughts that has led us down a primrose path time and time again, thorns in mourning, a prick to awaken the echoing passion of one’s life is sometimes all that we need. A gentle rosebud, tendered between the fingers of child reaching for that maternal bond that guides the heart home.
The course of our lives needs not be hampered by the play of vanity that shadows the halls of jealous pride, we are much better than the sadness casted by time. And in our quest to quite the stoop scene, Just a walk through those familiar streets we will find lost harmony that awakening since of peace.
That rosebud never to slip from that tiny grip, and our expectations will fall like gentle rain washing away the memory of what has caused so much pain to fall.
The rosebud tendered between the fingers of a child is a reflection of hope for us all.