She sits in a quiet reverence,
a sack of groceries at her side,
riding the St.Charles line home
as she has done every day now
for almost forty years.
The route is mapped out before her,
sights and sound memorized
like the worn photos of her wedding day.
A strange comfort, these clanks and hums,
these breaks in the neutral ground.
She crosses herself as the churches pass by,
hands as delicate and soft as tissue,
as brown as the leaves on the trees passing by
in the bleak light of a late november afternoon
Oak, magnolia and willow,
Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
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Written by: Steve Miller
http://novembersong.blogspot.com/