Things that Happen Only Once

Monday, every Monday.
Light reaching through the redwoods and touching, as I walk with my hand in my mother's, one fern.
Golden poppy fire. The poppies. Poppies.
Nows & thens.
As I round a curve on the way home, greeting me the greenest brow of a hill.
The girl in yellow on 53rd and Lexington.
A heron's stare.
A . . . . Z