Flora no regala flores. Regala su tiempo. Del Valle Central al área de San Francisco domingo a domingo trae tesoros que con sus propias manos, cuero marrón rajado, de la tierra ha sacado.
Flora no escucha flores. Escucha la banda de viejos hippies–cabellos largos, plateados como las cuerdas de sus guitarras, tocando Santana y Eric Clapton en el patio enrejado del ´´Slow Hand BBQ.´´
Flora no ve flores. Ve a tres viejos desamparados, barbas plateadas de tristeza, detrás de la reja del patio, que al ritmo de ´´Oye cómo va´´ recuerdan que en sus tiempos les decían vagabundos, trotamundos, no gente sin hogar.
Flora no escucha, observa, toca, huele y siente flores. Escucha, observa, toca, huele y siente al pueblo de Martinez suspirar.
Flora doesn’t give flowers. She gives her time. Driving from the Central Valley to the San Francisco area Sunday to Sunday, she brings treasures pulled from the earth with her cracked brown leather hands.
Flora doesn’t listen to flowers. She listens to the band of old hippies—long silver hair–as their guitar strings—play Santana and Eric Clapton on the “Slow Hand BBQ” patio.
Flora doesn´t see flowers. She sees three old homeless men, silver beards of sadness behind the wrought iron fenced patio, who, to the rhythm of “Oye como va,” remember that back in the day, they were called vagabonds, hobos, not homeless.
Flora doesn´t listen, observe, touch, smell, and feel flowers. She listens, observes, touches, smells, and feels the town of Martinez sigh.
On The Edge 
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