When Worlds Meet

Brush strokes 
The only evidence
Of the pride
She holds
Behind a stoic stare
In the stagnant doorway
Of a slow 
moving world
Prized soil packed
Hard
Defines her lot
In life

Strangers gawk
Then smile
Awkward greetings
Through 
tongue-tied lips
Enough to stay
The ego
And assuage the discomfort
Yet distance
Remains
Familiar strangers these
Now

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