she sits yoga like

in her passion pink robe

high on the hill

but the crowd is gone.

she can't stop crying

Carl Jung without a home

Van Gogh penniless on the street

all the saints come marching in

all the saints march out again

"Where & how will it end," asks the poet.

which one, she didn't say
 
 

she sits yoga like

in her passion pink robe

watching her neighbors

in the evening light

loading mattresses & children

having lost their homes

across the valley

far to the north

the rich sequestered

in home-made jails

she hears their inner wails

thru painted smiles

in polyester uniforms
 
 

she sits yoga like

tormented by demons with no hope

Michael told her to expect that

even knowing they always lose

they come...

but they hate tears & go away

with morning's first light

the rooster crows

the Earth is reborn.