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, and
dash through the market crowd, laughter as wind.
“For the last time, get over here Olivia!”
A heavy sigh, he swoops her up, shaking his head.
But she bubbles with glee,
because it’s all a game, all a game.

Soccer balls, calisthenics,
yoga poses, strollers,
blankets, books,
vegetables in bags, half-eaten sandwiches;
me, my luggage, on the bench;
all these things, all of it, everything, all of us
here, now in the bright of the morning.

The sun particles that warm my cheeks
took only eight minutes to get here
but thousands of years to go from the inside of the sun to its outside.
There on 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 hurled them outside, into the cold space
all the way to me, to this very moment, to this place.

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 my tears, and what they mean, and who I am.

Who am I? I am like the sun, and
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 down.
It was time, time to go, I think.

Here amongst the yellowed grass 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 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
like 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