Back in a corner, where she hid,
I met a little child, I did.
She was a quiet, fragile child
who never laughed and seldom smiled.
Her eyes were blue, her hair light brown,
but she was hurt and feeling down.
Her clothes were tattered, filled with holes.
like many people and their souls.
I spied her tears when she had cried.
I had not known her mother died.
Her age was eight, or maybe nine.
Her troubles were much more than mine.
I knelt down close to her and said,
"Have you a home? Have you been fed?"
Despite the crowd that gathered 'round,
our space was quiet - without sound.
I reached deep down in pocket and
I held your poem in my hand.
I opened scrap of paper proud,
then read your poem right out loud.
My eyes became a fuzzy blur.
I know you wrote it just for her.
She reached for me with all her hurt.
I hugged her back, ignoring dirt.
Words can't replace a bed and food
but fills with joy, the attitude.
I haven't seen her for awhile,
but know your poem made her smile.
Though some write many, some write few.
We've penned with love our words to view.
So write your rhymes unselfishly
with kindness, care and empathy.
And don't be hurt when I'm away
out sharing poems day to day.
Much better than some silly toy,
your words, for some, give real joy.
Back in a corner, where she hid,
I met a little child, I did...
©2016 louis gander - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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