"My sins have been bound into a yoke;
by his hands they were woven together.
They have come upon my neck
and the Lord has sapped my strength.
He has handed me over
to those I cannot withstand."

—Lamentations 1:14

It will passeth
her lips
wrapped over street over corner passeth
in green
scarf atop orange—a Prizm passeth—
                      she shivers on guard
sitting standing         the wind blows—a Skylark passeth—
ice to raise kisses
to her eyes like a bruise—Jimmy passeth—
remembered days later         alone         standing sitting
at corner in street
one child passeth over

It shall passeth over
between snow between curb
she's hooded in gray
sweatshirt—the Tundra passeth—
         frozen                  her sleeves
pulled         in street at corner                  over sleeves
over hands oranged—big Mercury passeth—gloved
holding red extended palm
written in white
                           S.T.O.P.                  —a Celebrity passeth—
the wind blows                   standing sitting
its cold                   —the Avalanche passeth—
into her         through her         passed
her         as an ocean wave
cradles a seashell—the Continental passeth—
creating inn-
er voice         an echo within a corner
a street
                                    three children shall passeth over

To passeth over
her like a siren whistles down
her ear         —her Legacy passeth—         the wind washing the street
the corner diluting urgency
to strain
eyes' sight as pitch—of Bronco passeth—
confuses deep brown
brown to black bat as street ice
catches blown wind
that catches her foot         standing sitting
and throws         her         —Spirit passeth—
at corner in street         to back
         wind sucks
         she sucks
         passing Caravan sucks
                                             breath

__

How funny that you are asking for the germination of SILENCE SATISFIES REQUIREMENTS because I pretty much felt like a germ all to often in the middle of the street stopping traffic to allow children to cross a busy intersection to get to school. The germination of this poem, if you haven't already guessed, comes from my experience as a crossing guard for the Fort Wayne Police Department. It's ajob that all people should take on who deliberately run red lights and stop signs, or just don't pay attention enough to their surroundings and their driving as they sit behind the wheel moving an instrument of great capacity that could be a destructive instrument to those within and to those outside of.

Also, I must recognize George Kalamaras, for he gave this poem its title.