Sundays, too, she got up early and let her feet lead her through the dusty alleys of that small town It was a luxury to have this kind of time alone, silence was vital food for her soul Enduring the weekday demands to relish a few hours of nothingness, rare meditation, An escape from a world of momentary necessity The sweet morning air that kissed one’s skin now turned heavy and stagnant Back down again through the same storied streets that, Had become unbearably hot by the noon-day sun, the pace of life slowed accordingly A weight came over her, the sort of fatigue where every exhaustible cell in your body yearns for rest She would wander all day if she could, meandering over ground hallowed by history By now the shadows of the afternoon had casted their long, lanky bodies behind the old chalk buildings The pulse of life reached a complete pause, as if away on vacation in a more hospitable place Everything bent, decaying, surrendering to the heat, and everything marked in contrast by the sun’s glare Here, she stands straight and strong, gazing into the burning face of the oppressor and giver of life And deny it the desire to win this vague war of attrition When rung out on the floor she’d smell of autumn and satisfaction Speaking to me she’ll tell of the faith in self, strength in solitude, and love of something greater than we dare to know.