The Man with Wildflowers


I saw you walking down the streets. At first, I saw just you. You walked with the gait of a man’s man. One leg askew as the other bent. You had on that tan cargo pants with the long sleeves black sweater. And in your right hand, you clutched a bunch of stems. From my position behind you, all I saw where the rough stems. All different shades of green and sizes. They look like they had been cut from the someone’s garden. Those certainly did not have the mark of a florist’s blade.

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The traffic moved enough for me to be able to look back on you. You took my breathe away. For in your hands were the most beautiful collection of wildflowers. They were haphazard in a way that my words can’t capture. You had flowers with fluffy green clusters and some with purple tips. There was that deep purple foliage that added a touch of color. And there were yellow blooms. All in your hand that looked like it hard been textured by┬áhard physical work. I looked at you again. Then, I thought your gait was actually the springiness of a man hurrying to a lover. I could see you smiling at people who you knew but never stopping. You sloppily tucked in the hem of your pants at some point.
Eventually, I lost you in my rearview mirror. I lost you and the picture perfection of a man holding wildflowers. You are what I imagine my love would be one day. A man hurrying home to me with flowers.