Waiting

the park soft green in March waits for the gentle spring sun to cure the grass of its shyness and for the city to clear the paths through the woods

serene and gentle before the season at night, motionless silence against the figures of the sage brownstones lining the avenue

Brooklyn is a noble borough built four generations ago full of now restored brick and stone buildings on tree lined streets

the park, nestled among the old neighborhoods that breathe ethnicity carries the souls of people who spoke a hundred languages to mix in a swirl of others all shades of men and women all religions and all classes divided in life but blended in the trenches of memory

the woods stand as I do sparse and clean this morning watching the blue sky rest on the rows of houses and apartment buildings that shape the sky from the top of the hill

I watch and hear the neighborhoods that sound in the city like slow drums working on time both mine and theirs