Window-Sphinx

She's always there; a watchful, window-sphinx whose eyes show distances far wider than the span of concrete gardens growing ink- like shadows spilled from soles of driven men. Young lovers bloom on promise sown in cracks as if their laughter might defeat the ache of urban architectures that collapsed around the coffins over which she's prayed. Her face, an epitaph of chiseled stone, each letter etched- a longing to escape the inner loneliness, her thoughtful throne above the passions grown in city-scapes. I captured sorrow in her photographs but I would trade them all to hear her laugh.