Walking at Lincoln Park
I see roots now. Everywhere. A fine
web leaking out the bottom of a cannonball
crate growing kale, aspiring cabbage.
A neighborhood that touches soft, loving,
slow, loving.
Together we circle the life once
believed green and gentle. There
for a moment. It’s limitless.
We should have let you be!
Big blue, big green. Big you, big me.
“White anglo-saxon protestants are
just the worst,” I hear from behind me,
mistake it for driftwood and sea breeze.
This time of day the water turns to lace,
nothing between the shimmering peaks.
Squint to glimpse eternity in one of the
effervescent gaps.
Thinking about gaps and space this week. i.e. what’s in the ‘v’ of a tree, the space below/between exposed roots, the curl of a wave, the disconnect between what you see and hear — tried to capture some of it in a poem about my favorite local park!