Her clothes and her face catch the dust

of the outdoors, once great

but renounced its splendor

when there was no shed

to take shelter against the wind.

 

She has no basin to wash in;

She has no nation who will stand

and declare: here you will soar!

 

She is one of the omitted many.

She is the mourning dove sequestered

by currents, by downdrafts she flapped headward against

with embattled spirit but was overtaken.

 

And had you stood where she stood—

a lone Athena against the bulwarked foe

Lack of Access—

you would have fared no better.

 

We all first blinked our eyes to the sun

worthy of a basin,

worthy of a nation.

She is of our flock,

and she is worthy.

​

​

(c)2019 Elyse Hart