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Concrete Angel


Concrete Angel
The sun rises,
the sun sets.
She watches, still,
unchanging,
unending.

Her static eyes
watch stoically
as people come and go.
Some pause,
sit at her feet,
and weep.

Sulfuric rain has
eroded her wings,
dulled the hands
that hold a
rigid rose.
Mold grows in
her crevices.

She stands patiently
as the sun beats down
and birds come
to sit on her head;
a silent sentinel for
the bones
beneath her as they
turn to dust.
                                                                               ~Wanda Stricklin Robertson
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