The Children I Know

The children I know
frown upon smiles
and spit at the daisies.
They come to us
from broken homes
and dirty basements,
out of alcoholic wombs
and piles of newspapers,
knowing that life is hard
and full of disappointment.

When they come to us,
we check their belongings;
tee-shirts and underwear,
and wonder with respect
at their life's journey.
We put forth faces
that try to remind them of kindness,
reminding them
that some flowers can grow
in the roughest of places.

They often come to us
with stories about drugs
and truths about foster parents
who welcomed them in,
then left them for days.
They talk about miscarriages
and being locked in closets;
our worst night mares,
lived by those half our age.

And of the children I know
many grow their own flowers
and ask us how to knit
preventing their fingers
from the comforts of cutting.
They find safer pleasures
to occupy their minds;
playing tribal flutes
and applying for work
to help out our gardeners.

Some children stay a long time,
and it can be difficult for them
to see their peers flourish
and leave this place behind,
but we try to remind them
that the daisies growing
in the roughest of places
should be written to often
with words of encouragement
and not spat upon
with jealousy or hate.