In Memory of Elsa Moreno
Into blue Picasso lit streets,
her sweet song floats through windows,
curls around corners, spirals down stairways,
fills empty alleys, spinning, spreading,
falling like soft clouds settling upon
the shoulders of the sick, and the lonely,
like warm white wings sheltering
the homeless, the hungry,
the old, the dying, and the dead.
In the mist of the morning
a baby boy is born, unnamed, alive
somewhere in the fading face of a passing moon.