what becomes

she turns,
just so,
the light and the fields and the flowers
and her face
and it is seen, briefly,
passing,
beautiful,
that all that is there
and all that is to come
and all that was,
is present,
impossibly full and yet empty
known only to be unknown,
and I know what becomes,
what becomes her,
it's fields of flowers,
glowing golden in the summer sun,
heart upon a lily sea,
and she's twiglike elegance,
standing just so,
grave and firm, statue abandoned
and I want to reflect it back to her
in all of her infinite ages,
what becomes
of the knots she ties
and the gossimer wings that
alight on the skin she is in
that know deeply the
well of all things good
she draws from,
and the good things that
she will grow,
and for a brief moment,
passing,
and beautiful,
seeing what becomes,
what becomes her,
my heart knows peace
knowing this beautiful
little thing
and that what she becomes
is exactly herself.




A.