My Little Park...Over in the old town today,
Doctors and physical therapy.
It's like recess,
Cloudless 85 degrees,
The Summer that almost wasn't.
The soybeans in the field are a third golden,
Like God swashed a streak of yellow amid the green paint.
The edges of stately old trees are orange or yellow,
Faint yet unmistakeable signs of Autumn's advent.
Birds lazily chirp in time to cicada melodies,
Not quite ready to flock.
A white egret drifts across blue sky,
Somewhere between fishing ponds.
I've played Bello's golden notes to the lowering Sun,
Laid him to rest and lit my Cameroon cigar.
Butterflies and bees float by,
And if I couldn't see the cars and telephone wires,
I could be a hundred years younger.
I went by the old house today,
The grasses I planted lush and flowering seven feet tall,
Untouched by the mortgage buzzsaw's relentless insanity that cut us out of Paradise.
I sit at my little park on 135th street,
Mentally removing pavement from my picture.
I missed the dandelions so.
By: Daniel A.Stafford