A Simple Print

The vision is over in a few
minutes, and
he is left there
wondering what it was
that he just saw.

He remembers the woman clearly:
a flower printed dress, the colors faded
almost like autumn, mostly white,
but for the tiny flowers...

He takes his drawing pad and
sketches the flower he saw.
Light yellow,
like fabric stained with age
rather than an actual hue
that could be traced on paper.

From the bedroom window
he can see the bright and livid
Spring day leak through. If
love had a face, this is what it might
look like.

Once he has the flower
drawn, he turns over the paper
and looks at it from different
angles where the sun
shines through. Whatever way it's turns,
it looks the same. It's simple. It's quiet.
It reflects the print on the woman's
dress perfectly. "But who was she?"
he asks.

There was a part of her
that reminded him of himself,
a twinkle of her eye, or perhaps
it was just a glint. Either way,
he could sense a small part of himself
in her.

"Tomorrow, the vision will
be stronger. I will think more on it
then," he says.

And the morning came
from dreamland night
like a wink in time
until the dawning light
drew rays across his room
far too soon
for a boy his age.

He took
the book
from atop the dresser
and read of the woman
who had the print of a flower
upon her dress,
and began to wonder
what her eyes would say
if he should lay
his hand upon the page
in the very same way
before he had drawn its image
the night before.

Her face came to mind
and he traced the lines
until it rhymed with
the sketch of the flower
on the previous page.
It wouldn't reveal
her age
or who she had been
by the description given
no matter how many times
he reread the lines
that described her so eloquently.

"Maybe she's timeless," he says
with a grin
and began to bend
paper to pen
and found
the woman
once again
with eyes of sparkling ice
and a kiss of darkest night
trapped upon the paper
where he drew her.