I pass the place where she sat, arms stretched out, lets
crossed, looking a little like a butterfly, not yet ready for flight, stone
wall to either side, while behind, a roof-covered promenade where the homeless
sleep in winter, beyond it all, stretched out on the far side of a very wide
river, the massive skyline grins, like a miracle, an every changing landscape
that grows like weeds almost overnight.
I pass the place where the old canon from WWI sits as a
monument to forgotten heroes, recalled twice a year, this is a holy place, if
not merely because of them, but also because her spirit lingers here, this this
meditation, endowed with greet and brown, grass and stone, with something just beyond
my ability to comprehend, lingering way after she has gone, and leaves me to
find the bread crumbs she leaves, never meaning for me or anybody else to
follow.
I pass the place the way I might a church or a grave,
feeling what lies here, and perhaps in a bit of awe at the power she has, over
this place, over me, an ever lasting imprint I can’t rid myself of, feeling it each time I come.
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