White Rocks

And should you take out your brushes one day, 
And remember the girl
Who found the red flower
In the white rocks, 
What then?

And should you paint that girl, 
Or those rocks, 
Or that flower, 
Could someone else see them?

I have seen them already
Scattered throughout your days 
Like bits of colored glass
On the white sand of a beach.  

And I have see you trying to explain them to the old lady 
Washing her underwear in the laundromat.
The lady looked puzzled, 
And you yourself lost track.  
Somehow you could not remember. 

But never mind.  
The girl waits and does not forget.  

I too shall remember, 
And I shall keep your hope safe in my pocket
If, for a moment, 
Like a child caught in a bad dream, 
You should forget the white rocks,
Or the flower, 
Or even the girl herself.