Phoenix in April
This could be any street in any city until we turn a corner and meet a flying buttress, thick and arched as a breaching whale. Over here, palo verdes in bloom offer yellow shelter to those who stroll beneath. Over there, David would follow the roundabout, cars pumping in and out like blood through the heart. I would scream at the oncoming autos--my fear his absolute delight. Over here, a campus waits, windowless slabs of geometric buildings, prepared for July’s heat. Over there, nothing prepares for such heat. Stone structures wider than whales cannot burn whispers one side: What has lived nine-hundred years cannot yield. On the other side, I have never been able to fully leave him there since he left me here. Sometimes, like a tiny voice aloft in a cavernous space, I still hear him say my name: Kimm-ee. Here and there, absence burns longer than fuel. Over there, we walked through the wooden doors, dipped our fingertips into the font: north, south, west, east. Our faith invisible until that moment. Over there, the spire is on fire while here the red yucca stretches crimson flowers—thin sparks shooting over green leaves. Here, I give the roundabout another go: a flash, a blink, a curve, a millennium furling into flames. © Kimberly Williams
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Kimberly WilliamsKimberly has been fortunate to travel to half the Spanish-speaking countries in the world by the time she was forty. As a traveler into different cultures, she has learned to listen ask questions, and seek points of connections. This page is meant to offer different points of connections between writers, words, ideas, languages, and imaginations. Thank you for visiting. Archives
October 2020
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