Windsurfing Nation

She sat, unflinching. Her rusted crown cast pointed shadows throughout my dimly lit kitchen.
“You are the rays of the sun.” I told her.
The engrained lines on her stoic face remained unchanged.
“You are the weary rivets in the Effeil Tower”
She stood and moved rigidly towards the door.
“You are the plastic bags in Traflagar Square”
She stopped and looked back, a rain-water tear in her green eye.
“You are the mural in St Peter’s Basilica”
A cold hand reached out and touched my face.
“You are the cracks in the Berlin Wall”
It slipped off slowly and she turned around once more.
“You are Buddah’s fingers in the Bamyan Valley”
She started to walk as she brushed a jumper off her bosom.
“You are the military guard in Tianamen Square.”
Her fire extinguished, she reached for the handle.
“You are the burning flag in the White House.”
I cried as my Mother of Exiles walked out the door.