Love In the Time of Plague

The Little Match Girl

In the dark, a little girl in a cotton shawl

struck a match to keep warm.

It illumined the stone structure

of the Peace Tower she leaned against,

the gargoyles against the night sky.

Gothic architecture

reaching almost to heaven

stretched its lacy fingers,

blotting the stars with its handkerchief—

its rhetorical icons

simmering prayers in the shadows.

There was a patchwork quilt

of nations, that had grown faded

with the rain and snow,

of the many colours of skin

that made up the face of a country,

of the many films from the National Film Board.

A match box was ten cents;

a passerby gave her a dime

as she stood in the gutter,

and she collected them in her apron.

             --Emily Isaacson

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