That there are spring days in Central Park,
where the world rushes in, where
underworld choruses summon,
cinnamon dancers in the shadowed arches,
fountain splashes simple, easy laughter
the light touch of a seasoned busker’s
There are spring days in Central Park,
that span an imagined landscape where
unrestrained lovers didn’t envision
the inevitability of not loving, not feeling
that quickening of heart and breath from
just a simple touch.
There are spring days, even on the field of Issus
where bonebits of Darius’ startled army
plowed for centuries later or simply disintegrate
testament that a smaller force can prevail.
And passing the boat house, followed
by the eyes of a brother, the voice of a sister,
the immutability of a mother,
in parting what was not really together,
a weathered memory in sandstone.