How strange: the only people out, these two
a girl, her aunt or grandmother
strolling
statelier than lilies grow
in weather they make a small crowdedness
for warmth, fly before the rain like chaff
immune to change they come down the block
as they do day after day
in a small pink coat in practical beige
linked by fingers, the walk home from the store
there is no sound
except the shuffle of sensible, rubber-soled shoes,
the tattoo of first heels
lavender along the sidewalk knots
and unknots its fragrance
the light changes around the window,
stretching, the maple shooting skyward
their hands pull apart
and you want to do something
sacrificial, and magnificent, to preserve
those figures under a turning sky that is not on fire
that does not fill with ash, that lowers only fat
snow clouds onto the roofs and ornamental cherries.
—Anne M. Doe Overstreet, from Delicate Machinery Suspended,
T. S. Poetry Press