The Capitol Rotunda, circular hall, immense dome,
and at its eye, a massive fresco:
The Apotheosis of George Washington, the President
rising to the heavens. A dangerous vision –
above the people and playing at God.
She is the very likeness of her.
Like her, pretends not to see me,
here, writing in my notebook, nursing coffee,
sketching her profile – no, really she’s profile.
Counterparts and counterpoint. Two melodies in harmony.
I launch the time machine by opening
this case of photographs locked against time
present and future. Even places (Newark, Paris)
frozen sepia and white 100 years removed
marveling at light and air from 2017.
Forgotten in the lilies of the day
are the night’s terrors of the soul.
No mystic, not a believer, simple soul,
without divine connection, floating lightly and free,
a butterfly toiling and spinning at blooms.
Inspired by The Dark Night of the Soul by St. John of the Cross.
and with soft, scented skin flushed pink
from a beating heart. And she moved.
She spoke, laughed, walked under sky acres.
Then immortalized inadequately in stone or words.
Crafted but cold, stationary, here and gone.