Poem in progress

A statue stands in the center of the garden.
Moss grows over her feet,
and ivy curls over her shoulder.
Hands barely outstretched,
held near the heart,
she waits to catch the rain.

Once...those palms held candles:
a vigil of questions and cries
continued through foggy midnight
to a morning of cold shadows.

These days fog and shadow
are her constant companions.
But no rain.

If sun should pierce through covering cloud,
she might stretch and yawn,
wiggle a toe,
brush the moss and ivy away,
and walk the twisted, forking paths
to the field of wildflowers
and play.

But not even the rain comes,
though pregnant air weighs heavy
with its moisture.
The mists water the trailing vines
and mossy corners.
It is enough for them.
But not for her.
Not for one who hopes
beyond boundaries of what is,
though she herself
is naught but stone.