Because you are always there to greet me,
I always walk through your gardens.
Past your small frames, frozen forever in bronze
as if watching over the entrances and exits of your domain.
And here, in this early spring we both wait bathed in wind, the hint of snow and a few pennies tossed to your feet
almost as if your begging eyes had convinced the passerbys
that you are real.
I await this passing each day─
run my fingers along
the edge of your empty fountain home
before returning to what is not a home
because I am not a child, and not cast, eternally,
in your armored bronze.