the visit

across the street, past
st. bernadette's
where a lush green stretch
of land is set with markers,
crumbling and tilted,
crosses and stones, where
i haven't visited yet.
i see her move towards
no one, but sits upon
the cold bench to rest.
she comes nearly every
day, at the same time,
in the same way, slow
and bent, but moving.
she doesn't seem to be
praying, or coming to
see someone she used
to know, perhaps she's
just curious about
what might be next.