Overhead and Underfoot July 2001
Overhead shifting clouds
metamorph their shapes, then dissipate.
Now the blue has clotted cream swirled through.
Underfoot the grass divides,
light green, bright and warm,
dark green, shady and cool.
Shadows creep toward me,
as earth moves away from the sun.
Between the sky and lawn,
we spend our hurried lives
unaware of changing light.
We live like film, single framed,
lost in our thoughts of things;
clinging to our pain.
Summer in the Park June 30, 2002
Prostrate in the arms of roots,
watching waving branch tips sway
like rippling wheat.
like rippling wheat.
Curled 'round my head- a rooftop wreath,
as if shaved flat by tractor's blade,
hanging on, I'm anchored prone.
Ribcage clouds slash the sky.
Ahead, crows patrol the dappled grass.
Behind, children laugh and run in sun.
The pitch of freeway hums
like surf on sandy shores;
overhead a jet roars.
Mockingbird sings our focus
back to trees and birdsong twitter.
It's summer in the park.
