She had the power to do me harm and refrained, offering me compassion
as sweet as roses, that hot summer’s day now long ago, when we both stood neck
deep in quicksand, stiff, knowing to struggle we might sink twice as fast, she,
the sweetened flowers that refused to fester when any other flower just as
sweet might have stank as vile as weeds.
What is that kept her from venting her wrath, that made her
take pity when others would not have, life being the accumulation of such
moments, seeds sewn to sprout up later as more pleasant than they seemed at the
time, she staying her hand, holding back her thorns that might have bled me
dry. I still wonder; I’m still eternally grateful.
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