The Survivor

for Lannette


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

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