My jaundiced from seasoned sin.
Could I pull the tattered paper down?
A hound dog, a dove of peace and a quail hustled by.
And, all I could do had been relieving my grief with a sigh.
An influx of vigils there in one self-determined space.
With a stretched out, battled scared, hand.
Pigment a bit red, more brown than white.
Black has been my favorite color…but something I know I would never fully understand.
Slipping on mounded snow…a not gracious slip.
Just inches from the ground…strange but not a stranger…a friendly grip.
Another vigilante grounding my sorrows with a lift up.
I need not understand the gesture…no longer had the stranger been so strange.
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