Our world is a poem and each life is an important word, no matter how short. We must read it with an open mind and take from it what most pleases our hearts.
When he was a boy he would spend all day in the sun.
If you looked out the window you might have seen the lonely boy wandering, eyes searching, one hand stained purple the other orange and two popsicle sticks.
Or you may have caught a glimpse of him years later sitting on a doorstep sewing up the holes in his heart by hand, the cotton treads of candy disappearing before his eyes.
From the comfort of your world, looking through the glass, you could have watched him grow before your eyes, but only on the days with sun.
Slowly, if you focused through the glare, you might now see that same boy is a man.
He walks the same streets, his head held high, his eyes pointed straight forward. He no longer wears his heart on his sleeve, but a smile on his face. His hands thrust deep into the pockets of a tailored peacoat, one purple the other orange and two popsicle sticks.