She could be Thai or Filipina,
but I know she’s from Viet Nam,
with eyes that churn one’s emotions
with the lithe lineaments of beauty
teased from myth, dreams, movies.
The waves of the Bay’s waters
tumble over one another
toward shore and the flanks of this craft.
Her face is angular, somewhat flat
but in a pleasing way. Her lips
are pursed, pouting almost, a sweet red fantasy.
She looks across the white-capped roiling Bay
as its waves roll ever slowly. She stares
at the pale Green Woman on the stone pedestal.
Both seem to shiver, the one
in her not yet acclimated swarthy flesh,
the other in her tarnished copper robe.
She smiles, content to be here,
crossing the Bay in December.
Hers is the face of liberty, of hope.
* * *
(c) Gregory V Driscoll 2012