Willow Dawn Becker

I lie on the grass,
stomach full
and look at the wide expanse of white cloud-ocean that illuminates the backdrop.

My daughter is in close-up,
peach ripe smell drips from her face and down her arm
in glittering trails of sunlight.

She drops the pit to my hand and
gives me a wary glare:
do not drop it,
there is a tree there
she knows, and she will
not let me forget it.

She runs to play, and I can
hear her laughter
swinging through
the air.

I just stare into the sky in wonder.

My belly is full and
my tongue tastes
chocolate cake for lunch,
peach for dinner.

Somewhere,
there is an antithesis to this moment.

A woman lies,
trapped.
No thought of clouded, brilliant blue.
She eats despair because that is all she can afford.
She hears silence because there is no laughter to spare.
Her greatest treasure is death, and she seeks it without remorse.

How am I here as she is there?
What cosmic justice allows her to steep in ignorance like a
rancid stew

While I,
Undeserving,
Eats life and has the ignorance to believe that
it is free?

Oh, God.  The world is free, but happiness so costly.
It requires the ability to see beyond the harsh blade of now and
believe that there is light behind the
black curtains.

Why am I the one backstage,
looking out at the audience,
the faceless crowd in the darkness?

Is it possible that they live as much for me
as I do for them?
That they see the stage and know that
Some day
the curtain will open and we will all
applaud each other?

This perhaps is the role I have been cast to play:
This happy freedom and
careless wonder.

They have their part,
Those darkened crowds, and
I cannot mourn that they play it.

If it were not for them,
I would not truly understand the goodness,

and price,

of chocolate cake and peaches
on a grassy, cloud-rimmed day.

You Have Time for Just One More:

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