Bluebells and buttercups

Have we met before

Were we once intertwined

As we passed through the revolving door

 

Was I once your mother,

Your lover or your son

Did you hold my hand and weep

As another race was run

 

Did I hold you in my arms

And smell your scent so sweet, or

Was I the unwashed urchin

You scorned in the street

 

All possibilities are relevant

Everything has its place

My beautiful bluebells and buttercups

I bow to your loving grace

Photo by Girish Nayyar at Pexels