Now she is twenty-two.
Green eyes, white skin,
blonde hair,
the springing youth.
A wonder with tight skin
and endeavors transcending
yourself,
passing you.
In the distant future is a serendipitous and unfortunate meeting:
Tourists again in the nave
of some foreign cathedral you visited long before,
where your pangs of loneliness
were recorded as timeless echoes
—and people thought this empathy was God.
They resonate from the walls,
and from her
and from her
gray eyes, gray skin, gray
hair,
despite the thirty-years of
thrills she recalls
with the help of her
husband and children.
Discontinuity is an emotional shock.
Imagine your childhood house,
a derelict skeleton ravaged by the elements,
your family displaced or dead.
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