Fort Greene Park

The grass is like iron bars,
a prison to the autumn leaves,
but when the wind swoops through
the leaves escape.

The kids are just like leaves as they dart through the market crowd,
their laughter a kind of wind that carries them, while a stern chastening chases them through the army of legs.
“For the last time, get over here Olivia!”
A heavy sigh, and he swoops her up, shaking his head, apologizing to marketgoers
while she bubbles with glee,
because it’s all a game, all a game.

On the hill
soccer balls, and calisthenics,
yoga poses, and strollers,
blankets, and books,
guitars, and voices that carry,
vegetables in bags and half-eaten sandwiches;
and then me, my luggage, here on the bench;
all these things, all of it, everything, all of us
in the bright morning,
the warming of the sun.

These light particles that now warm my cheeks
took eight minutes to get here from the yellow sun
and thousands of years to go from the inside to the outside.
There in the deep of the sun, the particles swirled in a solar fire for eons,
until it was time, it just was time for them to go,
and so the sun did what it had to and
hurled them outside, right out into the cold of space
where they hurtled for eight minutes
from there to here,
all the way to me, to this very moment, to this very place,
where they, polite strangers,
wait and then gently push through my eyelids,
polite strangers,
to meet my tears.

As the sun burns in and the salt burns out, I think about my tears, and what they mean, and who I am.

So What do my tears mean? And who am I?
Me, I am a sun.
My tears?
They are little john particles,
slow marchers from the inside of my heart to the outside of me
where there they sit,
on the edge of my closed eyes,
gathering, trying to hold on to it all,
onto everything,
until they just can’t anymore,
they just can not,
and so I give them up
and I let them go
and they careen to grass.
It was time, time to go, I think.

Here amongst the yellowed ground of Fort Greene Park
in the warmth of the sun and the chill of the wind,
under the rise of bright laughter from over the hill, through the water in my eyes and the light everywhere else,
I watch a flock of tiny sparrows look for food.

Their beaks weave through the grass
like miniature pendulums,
to and fro, to and fro, to and fro
every delicate movement
another count of time.

The way time moves.
The way everything breaks.
The way everything comes to us.
They way everything falls away.

It is all falling away
and I am letting it all go,
and here on this bench,
in the new of the day,
in the light of the ancient sun,
in the shadow of the city,
I am on a bench in Fort Green Park
ready to come home to you.

the sun

edited may 3 2020

November 10, 2019 / writing / short