There was a way she walked that reminded them
a flickering memory… a hand reaching for a hem.
Sometimes little bits of light escaped
from the folds and seams of her clothes
ephemeral as fireflies, not catchable, not caught, but
sticky in a way, as if
if you touched one
your fingers might come away pollen covered,
She wasn’t always aware;
she had her own worries after all,
but somehow she reminded them…
after she had passed from sight…
of the Old Tracks over high mountains,
of bridges suspended by a thread,
of small boats breeching the fetch,
and she evoked in them a homesickness
for a lost, beckoning place.
She shopped at the market,
stopped at stoplights,
stepped over ice on the slick streets,
to the light streaming out behind her.
I saw her once.