Gravity

in Kingsley Park, Cambridge Mass.

She raises her voice above the grime and muck of the world.
Trying to pull herself up and away from the earth's
Molasses grip. Her ethereal singsong washes her remote
Spirit from the unkempt rabble who pollute its purity. Yet,
We cannot call this lean, unbleached blond aging in her own
Body, a tyrant, crushing or maybe cutting away those
Less than her. A priestess perhaps, leaving behind
The vulgarities that continually weigh heavily upon her.
Yet her aged, wrinkled flesh sagging
From its continual struggle against the pull below, belies
Her removal from the heavy grip of worldly things.

August pulsating light, nearly blinding, beats down into the ground.
Around the pond she follows her yellow-haired retriever, his nose
close to the ground,
                      Hers lifted high.