Within Flagstaff’s quiet, leafed embrace
She stands apart from traffic, stone, and haste,
Her face a careful map of ritual grace,
Drawn not for show, but memory’s chaste paste.
White settles on her skin like borrowed bone,
Dark marks bloom where breath and thought reside;
The garden holds its pause, a softened tone,
As if the city listens from outside.
Her earrings swing like circles without end,
Echoes of dances older than this ground;
In measured calm, her stillness seems to mend
The fractured hours that crowd the city’s sound.
No words are spoken, yet the meaning stays:
Here culture walks where office towers rise.
Flagstaff remembers other, deeper days,
And through her face, their quiet truths reprise.
O shaded paths, O lawn and trembling tree,
You frame her not as spectacle, but sign
That even here, in measured modernity,
The ancient heart keeps time with breath and line.
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