Her eager pride tied loosely with her stainless stride
Measured repeatedly with aged, rusted needles and pins
Thick questions borne out of that chimney soot
Where answers are hanging from the flimsy clouds on the clothesline
Threadbare hopes fueling the shades of fushia
When the grey sky’s unsewing the despairing hemline
Meanwhile the burnt-out edges of that impatient yester-night
May have cowered into the fledgelings of the Stardust tonight
And the morning newspaper may also sing the old story of some caged imageries
Yet a hummingbird will flap her wings somewhere on the horizon
And even though in December she may run into a room smelling of molds
Yet certain of the promises of spring that preludes the streets with marigold
And she will reclaim the muddy cohort of that ancient woman
Weathering witnessing, yet pursuing the redemption of that infantile dream.
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