Archive
04/04/12 - (2)
Slow Boat to Anywhere
No other where can compare with Central Park in spring, Especially if the season has arrived To such a cloudless seventy-degree degree That the schist-boulders' mica glistens like water spirits And the sycamores, willows, maples, and oaks, Forsythias, redbuds, and flowering crabapples, Are filling out and filling in the sky's blue canvas, With greens, reds, whites, purples, yellows, and pinks Not even Monet ever conceived palletable.
And aren't we Wednesday's providential children, Strolling, leisurely, from Sixth Avenue, at Central Park South, To Loeb Boathouse, close to east/west-coursing 72nd, With only one never-before goal in our vision. Within a few breaths, we're in a rowboat, You sunning in the stern, I facing you, on the middle thwart, Gripping the oars as if I were an old hand at this. Soon, the two of us are floating on an inland ocean, Set loose, going anywhere, at devotion's own slow tempo.
04/04/12 - (2)
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