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.