Of a rose-seller at the traffic signal

Emerging all at once from the ether,
came his self, assured and measured.
In his hand was a bunch of roses.
Red as red can be,
And mesmerized as I just stared
at those crimson rainbows, boundless and free.
He came and stood,
an ethereal dream pressed against the glass.
Silent and unspoken,
still and deep,
like a vague memory from a time past.

I kept staring at the roses,
them, the red and fiery as the rough seas.
I longed to touch them petals,
flowing slow and supple like an evening breeze.
I kept looking without answering
without eyes of either interest or of hope.
So he walked away without waiting
and stopped only in front of the next car.

The roses, wonderful, stood preening again.
But his face was stoic still,
weathered as an ancient rock –
stranded alone on a grassy, wind-swept and forgotten hill.
His eyes, spoke nothing, his skin was rough and hard,
but his face was stoic still.
A little wind picked up then, caressed by the raucous horns,
and thus smiled, the man of the most profound will.

I stood rooted even as I moved on…
When, the lights turned green.
I kept dreaming to myself…
What a beauty I had just seen.
What a beauty I had just seen.