Fort Greene Park

The grass are iron bars,
a prison to the autumn leaves,
but when the gust swoops through
the leaves run away like no one is watching.

The kids are like leaves as
they fly through the market crowd, their laughter a kind of wind, a chastening chasing 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.
and 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 singing,
vegetables in bags, and half-eaten sandwiches;
and 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 particles that now warm my cheeks
took only eight minutes to get here from the yellow sun
but thousands of years to go from the inside of the sun to its outside
because there deep in the inside, the particles swirled in a solar fire for eons,
until it was time, it just was time for them to go,
and then the sun did what it had to and
hurled them outside, into the cold of space
where they careened for those eight minutes
all the way to me, to this very moment, to this place.
where here, now, they gently push through my eyelids, polite strangers, where in my eyes they meet the water of my tears.

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

So who am I? I am like the sun.
My tears? They are little john particles,
slow marchers from the inside of my heart to the outside of me
where there they will 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 white sun and the cold wind,
under the rise of bright laughter from over the hill, through salt water and warm sun
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
a measure of time…

The way time moves.
The way everything breaks.
The way everything comes to us.
They way everything leaves.

It’s falling away
and I am letting it 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 january 13 2020

November 10, 2019 / writing / short