Walking a trail in a too-frequented park while superfluous paragraphs
You speak chase each other through the air unhindered by another
Unseasonably frozen afternoon.
To the left we look and remark over the precarious powdering
Of tree limbs and dead leaves hanging so defiant and stubborn
Like the unbroken will of a child.
I know you wish for all of the silent flora to look as such but it cannot be.
The Canadian breeze in an approaching open meadow is like
A New York January that won’t leave a memory peaceably.
It draws and erases and paints over again the images it wishes us to see.
At least there is solace in a gloriously deceiving sun, how it chips
Away at the paragraphs you have loosed upon the air and they will crash
Far below us like the daggers and icicles we saw perish under the waterfall.