The reflecting pool stands still
Against the backdrop of empty chairs.
The Gates of Time measure off the minute
When everything changed. Golden
Cranes soar above the museum floor,
Elder brethren to the one above her bed.
“But she’s not a survivor; she wasn’t in the building.”
In her ears, the blast still rings
Plate glass shards impale like arrows,
Smoke still swirls
Whenever people disbelieve.
Every doubt another piece of rubble
But like the grand American Elm,
She stands tall, a survivor.
Image ©2004, Poem ©2010 by Stace Johnson