Though her mind was intricate inlay
she refused to allow it
to pave the way,
so took roundabout steps
instead.
She’d dance barefoot on cold mosaics
that hid spirals, initials
and pentagrams,
set in black-white tiles,
really fine gray matter.
She ushers me in
an Escher-like place,
we forever return to the top
on descent,
’round the square,
where the monuments stand
tall to commemorate
what we don’t know
since the placards are old
and faded, but penned
in foreign ornate,
script of fine gold-leaf.
And then we’re on
a dusty path
beaten out
from the edge
of her towns.
She stands
in bold relief
against the fading
horizon
haloed by firefly
and reflected glow
of my exuberant awe
to be with her
in this special place
alone and so far
from home.
© Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 