Where did you come from, my sweet little baby?
What were you before you were mine?
Were you the wind ruffling my hair?
Were you the sun giving life to the trees and warmth to my skin?
Were you the river in which I swim?
Were you a spider, a garter snake, a rabbit?
Were you a monk, a lawyer, a gypsy?
Were you a salamander, a fly, a bug?
Were you in Heaven, playing guitar and cards?
Were you at God’s right hand, watching the life of the Universe unfold?
Were you a letter on a page of Dante’s Inferno?
Were you a tree, lost to this life from a fire storm?
Were you kale, chard, spinach?
Were you a termite snacking on a treasured home?
Were you stardust one thousand light years away?
Were you the fabric of the Universe: spinning protons, electrons, neutrons?
Were you the space between the neutrons, electrons, protons?
Were you simply nothing before you were you?
Were you a black hole, holding the secrets of emptiness?
Or were you the Bermuda Triangle trapping unsuspecting travelers?
Were you a mite between my eyelashes?
Were you a writer for a made-for-TV murder mystery?
Or were you once Agnes Moorehead, destined to be famous again in this new life?
What were you, my love?
Where did you come from?
What was it like?
Were you a unicorn, dancing free in another land?
Were you a bird of the galaxy, traveling from planet to planet?
Were you a bird of our world, soaring high above?
Where did you come from, my baby?
What wisdom can you share from that other realm?
Tell me quick — before you forget.