Poet’s
Walk, Central Park, NYC
Leaves are falling scarce and haphazardly like feathery
volcano ashes. Sun setting, a sleepy
eyelid. The canopy of trees
twenty shades of green, green yellow – lining the sky with
neglected crayons (leaves hint of honeydew, of green tea, of mint
and parsley.) In the
distance four taxis
caravan by, airplanes soar overhead – I heed the faint tap,
tapping of
soles while sitting cross-legged and quiet beneath tree
limbs bent crazy like a wild dream –
an
interpretive dance, shadows carved like the veins of a nectarine
seed, cantaloupe skin.
Branches streaming out like rivers, like
children running, like jazz music and Vishnu’s
arms,
like electricity and lightning and reasons to swing and climb
and rest. Like hair in the
morning, the wrinkle around eyes, a
beautiful mistake.
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