In Kentucky

She glides easily up Alta Street through the light Kentucky snow
Weaving her way between the sparse snowflakes that hit the dirty ground
She moves like a dancer – or a panther – or a warm wave of water
She creates a path of least resistance and navigates it calmly

She carries stories of the war – not today’s war but a sepia-toned memory
She talks about the people from there and how they came to be here
She tells me stories of my city – stories that were secrets until today

Her face flashes fame – but her soul can’t be bothered
Her eyes are the safest place in the Bluegrass state
Her spirit is like the art she surrounds herself with
She illuminates anyone lucky enough to get close even if only for forty-eight hours
In Kentucky – on Alta Street – on a Monday in March

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