Under the shield of autumn gold leaves, she sang, knees
swaying. Sing for John, she told us. Sing for everyone.
Her purple shrouded arms waved, joining her knees

as though her dance alone would cure the country.
The candle's for you, she told a man beside her. From John.
She said she had a home, but we wondered where

and how. Her daily arrangement, when she arrived,
was laid around the circle, roses plump and crisp,
the candle blown out only when the park lamps lighted

at night. She told us of the police and her battle to keep John's
flowers from being swept away, of the dogs not on leashes
and the homeless man's harassments.

She cheered her hand radio, the firemen
refusing to leave. And she said to us, when the towers
fell, as though her roses compared to lives,
Welcome to my world, World.