Mr. Donald W

walks into a flower shop.

He glances at all the flora,

before settling on his pick.

Always the same one,

always the hydrangeas,

“For my little Mia,”

he murmurs quietly.

The co-workers smile,

some genuine, others not.

But Mr. Donald W

makes sure his little girl’s

flowers never rot.

Every day, the same lot,

the same color,

the same flower.

Mr. Donald grows older,

grey hair fans his face.

He stumbles, lacking of grace.

Still, Mr. Donald W takes his place

in line at the small shop

that wraps flowers in lace.

“For my little Mia,”

he whispers, dropping dimes

on the counter

next to his regular flowers.

The co-workers smile,

all genuine this time.

The cashier hands Mr. Donald

back his group of dimes.

“For Mia, one more bouquet,”

that cashier indeed did say.

Never could they had guessed,

how true that hit his heart.

Because he gave a small smile,

Mr. Donald W’s eyes watered,

and when he walked to the grave,

the shopkeepers noticed

how little things could go a long way.