A sly laugh dogs my fancy: grandfather,
the old wag, tales off again; the children
clamor and glide in bushy shadow; green
grass grows all around all around under
the vintage windows rose with the last
of the sun. Like life-size time shrunken and
drawn taut across the evening, the lawn taps
out its cricket sounds. The lone girlchild raps
her doldrums out on the tabletop while
muzzy Aunt turns over turning forty-
one, gives the women a once-over, thumbs
down the thought.
Who can describe it? I would
if I could. The park today was ducks like
sparks about the two snowflame swans burning
out of blue sconces. My child had crackers
and quacks—as many as she could swallow
or toss; the trees had leaves thick as Moorish
rugs, whose silhouettes blotted sunlight, drank
it off thick banks and gravel walks.
And the flowers! Bows of them, and beds massed
beneath Old Glory poling it windily
aloft. Yonder, the band shell, green benches
applauding its rustic orchestration:
flagstone, sandstone, half-timber. All told, a
caesura.
Already have an account? Log in
Join KR for even more to read.