Walk Nine - Virginia Bluebells and Fallen Mums
Like music glaring from a record player,
a whimsical tree slaps itself
with its leaves
as if Miles Davis
is blowing
“Freddie Freeloader”
into the streets.
Its flailing behavior reminds me of
my grandmother’s hair
and how her fro wiggles
through wind
when we spend an afternoon
together
on a beach in New York.
Grandma frowns
when her hair slaps her face,
just like this tree;
manipulated by late October.
The next sight I see
are my eyelashes
glistening in sunlight.
I look down, as if to the ground,
watching my lashes
as they shimmer
like chipped gold
forming points
in my vision.
The Letter A beams
in silver glitter,
boldened by an outline of
bright pink,
on a brick wall
beside someone’s
front door.
THE FEAR OF BEING
SEEN AS DIFFERENT
IS HOLDING YOU BACK.
The words written boldly in chalk
on the fabric of
a gate’s privacy screen,
in an empty
basketball court,
catches my eye
and wraps around my heart.
“Oh my god,” I hear myself say, slowly.
Entering the empty court,
to get closer to the sign,
and to read the other words inside,
I see three pretty
Virginia BlueBells
leaning against the
inside of the gate.
They hang from their stems.
Their delicacy is refreshing,
especially paired with
the well-intended message.
LIFE TRIED TO BURY US
BUT WE ARE THE ROOT
AND THE SEED,
says another message
painted on the side
of a purple building.
I look down at the grass,
tangled weeds,
and jumbled, chaotic yard
of plants beneath it.
Next door is a garden.
On garden arrows,
made of pallet wood,
words like: LOVE
ROOT
RESPECT
live on the outskirts
of the protected space.
Through the locked gate,
I notice a burst of
purple daisies
sitting in a giant pot.
The sunlight hits them
with interest and generosity.
On my way down the street,
I look down.
A figure in a trench coat
moves swiftly over the concrete.
My shadow greets me
somewhere in between
mystery
and transparency.
I see childlike play
that provides optimism
and clarity
for adult concerns…
A pot of mums have fallen over
on someone’s porch.
The rusty Autumn flowers shiver
helplessly
as the breath of the season
washes over them,
victoriously.