Poetry in the park

From one tree to another
comes chirps of love
- maybe not.
Could be a business transaction.
Who knows.

***

A chirp,
a car.
The wind,
the traffic.
A bird in flight,
a woman zooming down a hill
on her bike.
I see her wings.

***

Sitting here so long,
the ants have begun to
colonize on my body,
the worms travel my legs,
a tree’s roots snake up
and around my belly,
a daisy pops out of my ear,
birds make nests in my hair.
Just as well,
I am home.

***

A passerby sees
eleven of us enjoying the grass
on a sunny day.
You’re all nice couples but
do not be mistaken.
I am not alone.

***

A writer sits in a park,
convinced,
“I will not write of love.”
Listening to the birds chirping,
the heart stirs.
Each song is a song of love.
“But I will not write of love.”
The writer looks at the grass.
Each blade is like a hair,
on the head, on the body.
Run your fingers through,
feel the beat of the heart underneath.
Feel that love? That endless,
infinite,
eternal
love.
“But I will not write of love.”
The writer looks at ants
roaming his/her own skin.
It tickles like
a lover’s caress,
soft kisses on the skin that
leave for a moment but
stay for a lifetime.
“But I will not write of love.”
Forget the park, what of the sky?
The sun!
Such warmth.
It feels like being embraced.
Completely enveloped in love,
in sincerity,
in pure light,
in godliness
that only true lovers will know.
The writer goes home.
What else is there but
love.

(Also posted on Medium blog.)