---

Outside your crowded doorway
past the steel and mortar
the avenue before you,
you walk beside yourself and me.
How well do you hear me
and what do you recall
about the dust on everything you see?

If the morning leaves you
with just the afternoon
in the darkness of your room
Helena you will find,
avenues are most unkind.

The colors of your Sunday clothes
keep a place of ages
like the flowers placed in the pages
of your family word.
How many flowers gathered
have you carried from the valley
into the girded skyway
that holds you like a bird.

If the morning leaves you
with just the afternoon
in the darkness of your room
Helena you will know,
flowers are the first, to go

Outside of Spanish Harlem
your world is one suspended.
This is one that you intended
that you would leave behind.
How far will you run
before you discover
that your way back home
is what you left to find.

If the morning leaves you
with just the afternoon
in the darkness of your room
Helena you know why,
you couldn’t leave here if you try.

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