I’m feeling quite sick today, so I’m posting a poem that I wrote initially a while back, and am still working on.
Most thoughts of days outdoors start at Memorial Park,
where the plains of grass span between the seas of trees
waiting for picnickers to unpack their plates of cheese
in the evergreen sunlight of a perpetual spring day.
But this day seems better meant for a stroll
down the way to the village, where the bustle
of busy people breaks through the monotony
of an otherwise boring afternoon.
If you’re in a rush, you might take a short cut down Yale
where the light mess of greenery dodges around cozy homes,
or take a run along Harvard, if you’re feeling competitive.
Still, I prefer to take Indian Hill, the main road,
where you can peer down a corridor of ancient arbors
and see history unfold between the leaves,
like dancers telling the stories of each incumbent
through the wordless steps of wind-riddled branches.
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