On a windy afternoon in April
She steps out to cross the street
And in a flash of intuition
Sees herself framed in black and white,
Frozen, mid-march across a wrinkled page,
Her name immortalized in contours of ink,
Emblazoned in the eyes of a little girl
Two hundred years down the timeline of courage.
The call to succession is answered,
The burning baton passed
From weathered hands, strong branches gnarled with Time,
To eager hands, supple saplings thirsty for storms.
The tides recede, curling back
To air obsidian shards drawn from the dark trenches
Between the affirmations of our history books.
Deep within, a match snaps awake.
She smiles as, somewhere in the future,
Black parchment withers into flame
