The Sands

Perhaps the wings of bats
comprise your repose
tricked into believing
an ability to discern
your journey so elusive
you cloak yourself in night
bereft of my illusions
we will just fly blind

The Tree

This morning on my way to work I saw a corpse. No, not a human corpse, but the body of a tree cut into uneven stumps in the middle of the street. It’s structure was dismembered, branches and stumps scattered and tossed. Its leaves were still emerald, in sharp contrast to its rough-hewn bark. Its body bled amber sap. The crime scene made me stop in my tracks and try to imagine who would be so callous as to destroy something so innocent yet majestic.

I pictured the saws that tore it down, devoid of sight and feeling. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t visualize the human beings that operated those weapons of mass destruction, falling a being that had no doubt existed longer than any of the transient residents of this nondescript block in Queens. My shock turned to anger, then to an overwhelming sense of sadness - perhaps some of what grief counselors had repeatedly told me were some of the different stages of mourning. I never could quite remember the order in which they are supposed to occur.

Approaching closer, I noticed the remnants of nests in the branches. Tiny, seemingly haphazard things built of string and twigs and other such discarded items that industrious birds turned into homes. I wondered if any of these nests contained eggs, and how many had died as the tree fell. Did the robots that ripped this organism once pulsating with life apart realize that they were making refugees of its inhabitants? Where would these birds go now, when the flew back to find the dwellings they had industriously created for themselves destroyed? Do birds pick up and move on to the next tree, build another home, as people do when their lives are rendered topsy-turvy by circumstances so unforeseen?

I wanted to hug the stumps of the tree, to reassure it that at least one person would not forget it. Perhaps there exists a universe or dimension in which creatures such as trees can here and feel. I had the urge to say a prayer for it, and wished I knew some Hebrew so I could recite kaddish. All that came to mind were phrases from the Lord’s Prayer that my grandmother had mouthed solemnly in the Catholic church we used to go to as I watched, wishing I could be as enraptured as she by Sunday Mass.

As I walked away, late for work as usual, I wondered how many more years the tree would have survived had it escaped what seemed such a horrific fate. Would it have died a natural death? What was a natural death for a tree, anyway? I haven’t a clue. It must be the same way any living thing dies, really - either its insides, its bits and pieces, slowly and inevitably succumb, or it meets an untimely end due to a storm or to the myopic beings and structures that consider another home or development or concrete playground more valuable. And just as those who grieve for loved ones lose part of their homes, part of the structure of the lives they have created and built, so do the birds lose their nests. The branches that housed their homes are filaments, their outward structure belying the fragility within.

Chinatown Chrysanthemums

Spilled from the elderly man’s wagon
onto the weary concrete
I have seen many things
journey to a funeral aborted
I pick them up
white, yellow, white
you can have them
they are for you
you are not fragile
I will keep your secret
they are hardy and forgiving plants
they grow where others cannot

For Silvana

The Waltz

One two three
One two three
Simple steps
So it goes

Truth be told
What is truth
I cavort
with your ghost

For Bruce

Untitled

Grasp the days
with clenched fists
quite certain you can feel
concrete in your hands

The magician
flashes open palms
and there is nothing

Maybe you have some tricks
of your very own

Asthma Attack

Stop
You have me in a choke hold
I told you
cannot
breathe
I must commend you though
You are relentless
but then I realize
my own hands
clasp my throat

Julia

When you ask about my
curiously mismatched socks
Why is one sparkly?
and create your own way
to play Candy Land
Just the special cards!
My weariness alleviated
if only for a moment
Let’s dance now!
Your four years are made
only of sincerity
and I am relieved that
there is still dignity
somewhere

For Julia. May I one day have a daughter as lovely as you.