Winter
She
comes into the city
quiet
and cold, enters an old house
wearing
a weave of shadows.
Her
neckline and sleeves trimmed
with
beads of ice. Her pale hair vaporous.
Birds
rustle in the rafters
seeking
asylum from the wind,
the
bare chill of branch and street.
She hears
the uneasiness
in
their movement, remembering
how
fear hovers and echoes
in the
half light. Uncertainty
that crafts its own curfew
shutting
everyone inside
the darkness
of his or her
imagination,
the deafening bell
of a
heart that does not mute.
She
looks out the window,
her
contours and those of the city
outlined
in gray, the shade of ash
used
by providence
to
define her presence, to sign
her
name. Yet , her face is lit
in a
glass pane by the moon.
A
translucent blush
belonging
more to a votive flame.
____________________________________________
The City
Now on her knees,
A French citizen on CNN
Her
houses are locked,
Their
lamps low
burning
in quiet grief.
Birds
wait
on
wire or leaf-strewn ledge
to rap
on windows
with a
séanced rhythm.
The
moon half-clean
in
dusk's scullery
of clouds
and haze
while Paris
scrubbing
bloodshed with tears
afraid
to rise
but
knowing she must,
she
will.
______________________
Standard Bearer
Somewhere
tonight, Delacroix's child
steps
out of the painting;
her
dress torn along with the flag
still
uttering its tri couleur refrain,
the cannon
smoke behind
spreading
thick as pollen in the air. Barefoot
she
brings the battle with her --
vigilant
in white candles
burning
along the street, robust as wine
left in
bottles to salute the ship
tossed by waves but never prone to sink;
and
mournful in rows of flowers
laid
upon the old stone. The street lamps gird
with vine
leaves and a legacy of iron.
_____________________________________
Note -- The beautiful artwork is called "Lady In Black And White" by
French artist, Marie-France Riviere. More of her beautiful work can be found here;
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