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there was a lady
i saw once,
a long time ago.

she stood on black boxes
and wore white clothes
and a white veil
and white stockings
and white shoes
and painted her face
in clay –

white, white, clay.

 

she would stand there, frozen
in time
in the square
and people would pass

and only a few would care.

 

but when they did,
care, that is,
and when they stopped moving –
pursued along the rail of more pursuit –
and looked in her eyes,
she would meet their gaze

and move.

 

from beneath her white robes
she’d produce a flower

bright

color

on

blank

white.

 

she’d bend to meet them:
their eyes
and their hands
and in them
she’d place
the stem
and look
without blinking
and she would see them.

 

i wondered, after a few of them walked away with smiles
and a few with tears
how often they’d been looked at
and seen

that day

or week

or year

or ever

and it made me want to start growing flowers.

 

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