Just caught a glimpse of it from the taxi,
A fleeting picture you can never photograph.
A solitary black man playing his gleaming silver trumpet
Down by the edge of the Caribbean Sea
In a landscape scarred by the hand of hurricane George,
Amid a forest of fallen palm trees.

A lilting bluesy tune floats up to the highway.

She went there to find hope and renewal.
Compass spinning, she set a course,
Headed south to Santo Domingo.

Hotel elevator going down.
I hold her close to me
To know my friend is still here
Gracing this world.
Strangers peer at us curiously.
She asks, "Are you praying on me?"

Time grew so precious then,
The moments flew
Like taxis down the Malacon.

In unexpected ways
In quiet places
Amid this destruction
Without light or water
She found courage
And lived each day.

The arc of our existence
Which leads us far from familiar places.
Is there anything left that can save her?
The arc of our existence
Which describes our fabled journeys.
Can faith and inspiration save her,
Hope and healers,
Everyday miracles of love?

New York

Flying north from Florida.
What can we do at such a time but tell her
Our lives have been touched
By her undaunted spirit.

They say she has been lingering
On the edge of life for a week or so,
And never giving up hope
Kept ordering Chineese food to go.

I see that excited little girl dressing for school,
Gathering her books up with pride
Then heading off to classes
Moving with a confident, jaunty stride.

Light rain and dense fog over Manhattan.
There is a sense of foreboding.
I have not felt this way before.
The city seems poised for weeping.

Roosevelt Hospital waiting room.
Looking out across the city, damp and gray
A wisp of smoke is rising.
And then, the sudden wailing cries,
The awful desperation that broke the stillness
And echoed calamity through the halls that day.
It haunts me still.