Postcards (poem)

Postcards

When all is done,
and postcards are from far away,
I’ll remember each step
of cobblestone walks at night,
gaps between pebbles
rain-filled from the afternoon shower
while I, lost in orientation,
wandered as the buildings
appeared to cave in.

Their shadows reflected
each detail of a lion,
an angel, a bishop,
carved from century’s hands:
their Creator,
lost in art and devotion,
moved gracefully with each cut
of delicate wings
that appear to take flight,

away,

away from rooftops
at the bell hour—
choruses of destinations
still yet to be discovered.

© Rebecca Goes Rendezvous, 2016