In the midst of a dusty thoroughfare,
she stands there.
Not a mystic.
Nor, a mythical, vibrant, icon.
As I stretch my needy hands ahead of me.
Our distance gets longer.
Between pictures of what I am hoping to see.
And, the wanting that aches below my feet.
I cherish these days.
Refreshed in the soil of my toil.
The plump air tied to elm’s shedding crimson tears.
Only delicate factors…to which the walking woman draws near.
Yet, I am taken for a ransom in the realm of possibilities.
For there is an understanding between her and me.
I can only walk as far as, my eyes can see.