Still, a Sun

In the street, a murmur,
A voice that wanders astray.
A woman draws near,
Her words hardly cohere.

Her coat is too large,
One bag new, the other too heavy.
She wears the street upon her,
Like a silent, plain truth.

Yet her gaze is gentle,
As though she were not quite there.
She does not seem sad,
Even though she has nothing.

She walks away, almost joyful,
Only then do I see
Her fingers, whitened by frostbite,
Already living another life.

Time has done its work,
Unnoticed, unattended.
Her body lies exposed,
To the cold, to indifference.

Still, her soul is a sun.