In the twisted city streets, nestled between Fifth Street and Brighton Avenue, laid a small outcropping of grass. Children would play there, laughing brightly at things that only the imagination knew. I passed by there often, watching them, thinking about where I had been, and where the laughter had gone in my life. Sometimes, in the dead of winter, when the snow was high round my ankles, I would stop.

The grass area was quiet then, children locked tightly in their homes. I would sit and think about my gift of art, and wonder if it too had vanished like the children. The inspiration that I sought, always eluding me. I would lift my eyes and pray on occasion that some day it would return, just as I knew the children would- eventually.

It was another day, deeper in the winter, when the snow was falling and the chill was biting cold that I passed the park again. I stopped mid stride and turned to it, marveling at the resilience of the benches to carry the heavy burden of snow so long. It was then that my eyes caught a glimmer of yellow in the endless blanket of white. I studied it for a moment, not believing my eyes.

Between the obscuring wisps of snow lay a single flower. Its petals were hardy, as if cut in the sweetness of summer; its center, orange as the pumpkins that adorned Thanksgiving décor. It was perfect, aside from the snow that smothered the base of it.

Truly, others with less vision would have missed it. Still more upon seeing it would have turned away, but not I. The flower symbolized something poetic and unfathomable - something about beauty in the face of adversity. I stood awhile longer, and then found a compelling rush of hope fill me.

I took the bloom in my ungainly hand and pulled it up. Surely it would not survive the winter storm swirling about. It was my duty to move it somewhere safe. So I did, holding a hand over its sunshine petals, as I walked the seven blocks home.

The door clicked behind me and I tossed the coats from my back. It was my duty, now that I had saved this flower, to make it happy. I set to work, retrieving a vase and water, and set it up beside my easel to better look at it. The flower and I conversed a very long time, not using the conventional means. It told me a story of itself through the richness of its color and the pride of its stance.

I wondered how anything so soft and fragile could survive in the world alone, much less in the dead of winter. It circled my thoughts until I required an outlet. Pencil in hand I set to work, telling the story the flower knew with my gift at listening to things unsaid.

Hours, blending forward through curves and lines, drew poetry without words. I watched in empathetic understanding as the universe unraveled in a polite spray of yellow and orange. I slept with dreams of promise that night, knowing that when the morning came, I would produce more wonders. Others had to see and know the story of the flower in winter. The flower that was imbued with the promise of children's' laughter come spring.

The easel was hard on my forehead as I awoke. Lifting my eyes to the window above me, the sunlight streamed in. The storm of the night had faded and I sat up, stretching away the kinks and pains that upright sleep had brought. I stared down beneath me, at the artwork I had created. I blinked, stunned by what I found. There was no masterpiece before me. There was no form at all. There was but the simple washings of colors, and lines telling of promise to come. Though I knew there should have been more, I knew not to be afraid. There were still days of work ahead of me, for the gift had returned. I could feel it, writhing through my veins, like life.

I smiled, pushing from the easel, and turned toward the flower, leaning to smell its perfection. However, the flower was gone, nothing but a withered stalk to replace it. A silence fell over me as my eyes drifted downward, tracing the trail of brown petals that spilt at my feet. I covered my mouth to muffle the gasp that burst from my lips.

My weak lip trembled. How could something so wonderful vanish so quickly? I had saved it from the storm, where it had survived, and had sentenced it to death with my selfishness. My eyes rose again to the window, where beautiful light poured through. In my misguided attempts at kindness I had smothered its chances at life.

And I, with my rough hands, dared touch it. It crumbled apart in my grip, the last petals sliding to my feet. I cried, lost in the infinite understanding that stole the breath from my lungs. Despite the trials that plagued it in mortal life, this little spirit was immune to all things cold.

I wiped my cheeks, and turned to the canvas, turned to the splashes of color that mocked me. No one anywhere could ever paint the power of an innocent story. How dare I think my poor mortal hands could ever intervene in something above me? Something untouchable and perfect as it was.

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