Resting
She lies, quietly reclining,
her flitting eyes
beneath porcelain lids the only sign of life,
save for slight rise and fall of maiden breast.
But in her dream . . .
she soars beyond her narrow, provincial world
where tales recorded in approved books
are her only adventures.
Moonbeams beckon,
luminous trails of stardust swirl
gilding the fluid pathway of her flight.
She wanders aloft, observing narrow streets,
foreign to her wide and planted avenues
where one walks protected, shielded
from the rough venues of common life;
there dwell
the weak, the halt, the maimed, the depraved,
those whom poverty and cruelty have crushed
beneath ponderous feet abuse and hurt cleated,
seeing an encapsulated view captured by inner eyes
that sense her privileged world
has lost step with humanity.
Courage is conceived; resolve is awakened:
a Florence Nightingale is born.
Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright, May 16, 2014
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