EVA YEMENAKIS Indian

Summer

Here are no stone weeping angels spreading their wings, just an autumn afternoon carrying the promise of winter and a stillness made of trees.

Here is no wailing and gnashing of teeth, just some unobtrusive benches leaning back against the walls wearing their oblong plaques diffidently.

Here is no flaunting of wealth and fame, just some names and dates; sometimes a phrase, ‘A colleague, friend and lover of life.’

Here are no stories carefully shaped and told, just some fragments that offer a glimpse of lives remembered and perhaps well-lived.

And in the near distance the traffic moves –just the city’s voice telling another story that speaks to the stillness of the trees.