by Danny P. Barbare
Cleaning the windows at the YMCA,
I stop to gaze at the flower garden.
In early autumn,
My doctor
Turns the disability of depression
Into petals of yellow,
And thorns to a smooth stem,
Like the flowers.
And I am thankful too
From the caring roots, I grew.
And the soil, fertile and rich,
That got me the help I needed,
From which I was blessed.
Last updated December 23, 2013