The avenue verdant with rain, I hear

the flutter of shimmering leaves, a shout

of birth. My umbrella inverts at gusts

along the Hudson, a steamship in mist

emerging, alit by seagulls, cities

crowning its flanks. The naked path opens

its arms to me, no-one besides lonely

wanderers under the eaves, whispering

the truth to old lovers. I have only

the sky for my companion, waves of fog

between me and my origin, springtime’s

caress separated by age. A goose

takes flight with a webbed-feet pavement murmur,

afraid of my species, the plunderers

in search of El Dorado, youth’s fountain.


I am no different, gazing

at the opposite bank in hopes

of inspiration, lost among

the blare of horns, the bones of light

gridded across these meadowlands.

I am the same, it’s Mother’s Day

and I want to find beginnings,

an unfiltered world of delight

like that first bud, that leaf drinking

the rain. Again I hear my heart,

the flutter of belief, at once

as it has always been and new.

Again I feel the air beneath;

finite triumph, humanity

made out of ancient waves and dew.

What are you looking for?