At my library
there is a small iron statue
at the entrance.
A flying angel,
or more, like a child
who entered a dream
and grew wings.
It has the certain purity of a little goddess
who I hope
will somewhere in forever,
come back
and look into the eyes
of my simulacrum,
and make it happy
with her sweetness.
But that is not what made me pause,
one day like every other day,
but sadness at the rust
streaking her wings,
the cold oxidation of her gown,
her delicate face, still unmarred,
threatened by corrosion,
as if a shadow moving over her
is hesitating
not wanting to disfigure
her features.
The inanimate taking pity on her.
My body will disappear in days
with a stone for a star,
but this tiny beauty
will endure for years
its destruction,
then be forged into something else,
or thrown into the piles of scrap
our lives accumulate.
Or will my wish be granted
in acknowledgment of affection,
and she be saved
for my children’s children
who will pass her,
a little girl come true?