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Poem

A mother's hand trembles
     as she brushes a tear from her eyes;
while watching her awkward child
     standing all alone, forgotten.
As others, in their budding self-awareness,
     catch glimpses as they run by, playing
at their games and life.

They were too young, perhaps,
     to appreciate that difference will
often foretell brilliance, that genius
     sometimes hides behind
shyness, and strength within
     softly stammered words.

Instead, we often feel we must march
     to the same annoying drum beat,
speak the same exhausted phrases,
     and think only empty thoughts
to feel connected. While left alone,
     the one who's different
finds contentment in tending
     a garden of his dreams.

Perhaps he should have come to this
     life a little later, when humanity
might have learned acceptance
     of those unlike themselves, and
tolerance for minds greater than
     their own.

But, for now, there'll be derision
     as insecurity outruns compassion
in the human race. Yet, as sometimes
     happens, the awkward one, rejected as
a playmate, is now extolled by many
     critics for his masterpieces.
And we gaze in wonder at the loveliness
     of the unique.

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