The Wrinkled Scent

He lived his life as a flower vendor but it didn't fetch him a penny. Since he didn't know anything else to do, he found happiness in whatever he did.

The day I saw him, I noticed a spark in his eyes,
The twinkle will remain etched in my mind.
He was busy decorating his trophy shop,
Which stood along the bus stop.

Everyday he passionately cleaned the edges rickety,
The shelves that the running roads made rusty.
The summer heat brought beads of sweat and salt,
Which shimmered with the water droplets on his plot.

The air carried the sweet scent of his flowers,
Stopping each passerby to a halt.
But none stood to make a bargain,
Yet he stood there hopeful again.

I wondered some days did he make any money?
Was he able to fill the growl of his tummy?
I wish I knew why he sold flowers,
The smell of which seemed to fade fast.

Then one day I saw him smile at me,
That very second his eyes answered me,
The eyes with the twinkle said to me,
The flower’s scent was the reason for his wrinkle.