Roses For Mama Poem by Mark Spencer

I took a trip to the florist
On Christmas Eve last year.
And happened by a homeless man
Who's eyes were filled with tears.

He said: "Good sir, I need your help,
I don't seek to deceive.
I buy roses for my mama
On every Christmas Eve."

"But they think I'm invisible,
These florists must be blind! "
He offered up his change to me,
And asked if I would mind.

He'd saved enough for three long stems,
Not much of a bouquet.
But cheerfully he shook my hand,
And then was on his way.

Convinced that I'd done my good deed,
I bought some for my wife.
There were thirty fresh cut roses,
For the love of my life.

Driving past the local graveyard,
I saw that homeless man.
Kneeling beside his mother's grave,
And so I parked my van.

My heart was broken by that sight,
I knew not what to say.
I mindfully approached the grave,
And offered my bouquet,

He said: "You meant those for your wife.
They shouldn't leave your hand."
I said: my wife knows how I feel,
And she will understand.

I placed them on his mother's grave,
As tears rolled down his face.
I was captured by the moment,
Suspended in that place.

Then from behind, a man inquired
If I had been a friend.
I told him: "no, I'm with her son, "
He didn't comprehend.

When I pointed at the roses,
The homeless man was gone.
The stranger said, "You've seen him too? "
Was he putting me on?

He said, "I believe your story.
For I've seen him as well;
On Christmas Eve, six years ago,
A tale I seldom tell."

He said there's something I should know,
And quickly clarified.
"It was back in nineteen eighty,
When this homeless man died."

He came here every Christmas Eve,
Until his final breath.
It's a practice he's continued
These decades since his death.

Sometimes it takes a miracle,
To make someone believe.
And I received my miracle
One special Christmas Eve.