Wash the stones with silky dampness,
Frame the sky the color of paper before thought.
Someone once decided
The city deserved a stacked stone gate,
To beckon to the sun to shine again each day.
The sacred never goes away.
The days crawl anciently,
Citizens move lethargically,
Eating at noon, quietly gone,
Bodies tripping away.
A spirit won't leave such privilege behind.
It whistles between the branches,
Reminds the sun to shine today,
Even if we've out-welcomed our stay.