IMPRESSIONS

the neighbors think

she's crazy: there must be

something wrong.  she never

talks, just walks,

perfectly composed, truly aimed,

words--are there words?--

kept within her head?

she's mad, they are saying.

we have seen the ambulances;

we have seen the police come

(without their sirens)

to collect her. and once,

the neighbors swear it's true,

helicopters hovered, seeking

with a bird's eye view.

when she says hello,

when she stops to pet the dogs,

or to scratch a ferrule cat--

the neighbors don't notice the compassion

or the longing.

harmless.

or, mostly harmless anyway.

just let her pass.

yield the sidewalk to her: 

she'll be gone in just a few seconds..

what they don't know--

what they don't take time to discover--

is that she is watching,

she is watching everyone,

making notes to herself

in her silent passage each day.

at the second house from the corner, the wife is

always rushing, always panicking, sure

she's forgetting something (or someone).

A few doors away, a man emerges

at the same time each day

to turn on the sprinklers

as if the house were

one large cuckoo clock, and he

has to announce the time.

further down this quiet street, someone

lets out two small dogs no bigger

than squirrels.

the walker notices these things.

she sees everything--

everything the neighbors never 

stop

to notice.

one day,

one door--just one--

may open.

inside the walker's silence,

a dreamer lives,

breathes, 

prepares,

formulates a response.

"Good morning.  

don't be afraid."

Copyright (*c) 2012 by the author