The Simple by Cynthia Hogue

The women cluster at the cathedral,
hair in careful bouffant helmets,
armored and elegant, poised to herd
                                                            into Mystery.
I think, I’ll do that too, but tear up I can’t
                                                            say why.

Stand still. Wind wisps my hair that gently
you brush like stardust from my eyes. Light shifts
and colors sharpen. Across the square the Grand
                                                            Hotel sparkles with
                                                            chandeliers, mirrors
upon mirrors in gold-leaf frames: the soaring empty space
                                                            of the Symbolic.

Read the full poem here.