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.
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