Walk Fifteen - ROSE BUD (AND A SIGN OF ITALY)
The sun’s warmth
glides against my face
as a sudden pop
when I reach 13th street
This feels like the earliest
tease of Spring we’ll receive,
though its warmth
and vibrant trees and shrubs are missing
A surprise “short cut”
through the park waves
a tiny pink flower bud
past my face as I turn onto a new path
The rose is closed away
shielding itself from the cold
and still vibrant to an eye—my eye
The pink bud sweeps behind my shoulder
as I walk beside the soccer field
A few streets down,
I “find” a small house
wrapped in a mural made of glass.
The pieces make up images
of people, and there’s porcelain mugs
and jars painted in flowers
sticking out of the molding.
An image sits inside of a small window
of the one-story house.
It’s an image of a countryside house
with a garden of chives beside it
and a fair group of trees on the other side.
It makes me think of Italy
I pause at the refreshing picture
letting it fill me up
with a refreshing sense of place.
A place where I’d approach my home garden
with a net bag of radishes, squashes,
bell peppers, and greens, over my shoulder,
and fruit in another in my hand
I’d smile and wave at a friend
who lives nearby
We’d embrace each other
with vibrant kisses to our cheeks
and hold onto each other
for at least a minute
The sky would be a charismatic zing,
inspiring freshly made lemonade
made with fresh lemons from the tree
in my backyard
and basil and mint from the pots
beside the house
For now, this walk will do.
Someone passes me, on his way to a place,
moving quickly
maybe to work
He forges his way through his day,
with a backpack on his shoulders
dreadlocks kissed by the light of day
and complimented by the sun
At the big street,
a crane lifts a large three-panel wall
with window cutouts
Two long flimsy tape strings
wither in the morning’s wind
The green sheet passes through
the blue sky on its way
to be built into a sense of safety
for residents to-be
My eyes are met with the eyes
of someone driving a truck,
Who at first,
looks over my head to see his turn,
and then catches my gaze
before the truck slips away.
The white block swipes
out of my path,
revealing
the open gates of an abundant
park entrance
with a plethora of dried rose bushes
that will soon be vibrant and full
again come Spring
Down the next block,
I catch a glimpse of my reflection
through a black ball
hanging on a chain of Christmas decor
from someone’s window.
My beige jacket is faint
in the black world of the ball
My body is stretched,
the street is curved,
and the sky behind my head is
nuanced by the ball’s tone
which gives the sky warmth.
Seeing my reflection in an object
is a surprise—sometimes a delight
and sometimes a distraction.
Every light has shadow,
and the complexities of being
takes more time to acknowledge
than I sometimes have to offer
so I quickly move past the ball
but make sure to acknowledge
myself floating through it
beautifully
Merry Christmas
The words are etched into
a small green decor mailbox
rooted in someone’s front porch,
along with other extravagant
celebratory objects