Returning to the park after a long time, I found my attention arrested by a tree…
So much beauty and so much pain in its position in a mass of cracked, dried wood.
In years passed, I must have walked by it many times, before the sky-storm or the man-storm or it’s parasitic illness. When it was whole, I seldom noticed it.
Isn’t pain a way to see things more clearly?
lakes like oil spills,
statues that wink behind you,
and the soft flutter of sleepless birds…
What’s there not to like about a midnight park?
And then you have the occasional oddball…
Such as the Frenchwoman who was talking to herself and gesticulating fiercely on lone alleys,
and then turned away whenever she came across me.
But she was too well dressed to be a madwoman, and
the blue blouse draped over her shoulders was quite chic.
So, when I espied her take out of her pocket a bunch of ruffled
papers, my doubts were confirmed:
Still waiting for the snow. Any luck there yet?