Glad it’s green

it’s been so long, almost too long

except we don’t tell time in Forever

whatever’s planted will grow

just not always the way you think

twisted, and awkward besides

so many reels with trains

the thrill of going is fresh

but there’s always an end to the track

a bud between rails

waving but not wavering

as a season presses into another

It rests, pools

with no concern for want

or when

It falls, is held

disappearing from view

but not place

It turns, spins

with myth of mother

in a cloud

It moves, is still

cradling light

maybe forever

There was a climbing wall

on the playground

and I used to sit astride it,

looking both backward and ahead,

like a sentry in a castle tower.

I imagined I could see

all the known possibilities

of what was behind me

as anything ahead seemed foreign

and a little exciting.

My legs sometimes would swing

as if there was a song playing

-often there was, at least in my head.

I would hold on tight

to the beam that held the walls together

and sit until called back to class.

There was no battle to win

or answer to figure out

on that wall, just a happy way to pass time,

legs swinging, the wind pushing me to sing

and keep time with my daydreams

of whatever lay ahead.

A book with at least four page markers

and a row of untouched spines.

The clock hands stuck then racing.

Clothes constricting.

Clouds holding onto rain.

Gestures of a universal language.

Traffic moving every which way

without caring much about the views.

A town that held onto its street lamps

a little too long

before giving way to tattoo parlors

though there’s a cobbler on Main Street.

A tree that has breathed tar and tornadoes

knowing men as they were children.

The story never really begins but picks up

somewhere back and forth in the middle.

I walked on the 4th floor today,

where spines had scrolled designs

and there were more bound volumes

on science and poetry

than where I usually walk.

There was a sculpture of some vaguely

female form, round and abundant

locked in a display case

at the corner of “M.”

There I could almost hear Millay:

“I only hoped, with the mild hope of all

Who watch the leaf take shape upon the tree…”

And I hoped too to see it through,

whatever it is. Probably it is tree-shaped

if it is something I love,

possibly without deep roots

but strong and able to bend

as we dance- because I like to dance,

or I used to

before I became abundant.

I descended a few floors to find

somehow, the ground was not moving

though I distinctly felt the building shift.

Maybe it was me with the weight

of spinning odes and artsy spines

and pottery peering at me through glass.