She has a cornucopia smile

underneath her ragged hat

and threadbare tatters.

She has starlight in her eyes

shining from behind a cloudy childhood.

Lost in possibility, she holds onto dignity 

and the measure of things,

shuffling in line for a bowl of soup

to warm her gloveless fingers,

her yellowing heart.

 

Subtract out the watercolored layers,

the quilted scars of despondency,

and it’s clear she, too, is driven by a soul,

the impulsion of the spirit of God.

She’s in this line on Wednesdays,

other lines on other days,

but there’s only one that matters,

the transcendent line stretching

back to the dawn of time,

ahead to the edge of dusk. 

 

- Charles Fischer

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