ONCE
- Mar 14
- 1 min read
By BV Lawson
You watch the bird fly overhead and think it had a name once.
It soars so beautifully and comes down to land
in front of that woman right over there.
You wish you knew who she was.
You think she had a name once.
The sun-colored flowers blow back and forth in the wind,
and you reach down to touch one.
Smooth, soft, fragile.
Did you grow them once?
This garden seems so strange yet so familiar,
and the house, the sun-colored house,
you think you know it.
You think you may have painted it once.
The woman looks at you with glistening eyes
and seems to know you,
seems to think you belong here.
Perhaps you did, once.
The woman places something in your hands,
and you look down at a sun-colored flower she has picked.
You tear off the petals and let them fly away on the wind. Alive, free.
You think you were alive, too, once.