For this morning: no
yoga
biking in fresh air
cross the crosstown
carefully
when I look up to see an air force jet
dark, dark grey
against a blue, blue sky
the sun flares my glasses
but oh the boats on my right,
at rest, tethered
as I am as well,
yet free wheeling at this moment.
The cotton candy pink
pampas grass
graces the sidewalk
and the marshes
are in full view,
a salt meadow
of dense woven greens
with multitudes
of tiny waving tips
conducting the sparrows’ song.
Singing just for me this morning
sharing their happy hearts.
Now the bend into Coast Guard territory
marked White
and Coast Guard Red
and Coast Guard Blue
with water booms
banding around
some silent activity of the service
looking very much like
a boys playground.
Industrious and not part of my world.
This, flanked on the left,
by the statuesque Sargeant Jasper
a dead shadow
a monument to past persuasions
that will fall soon fall
to another vision.
But, the harbor beckons
I, tilting, pedal the wide sidewalk
so as to be closer to the sea.
The wave action
calls me to my river
north, north, north
to the northern star:
the compass where
awareness began.
Those days and
and many more
made me
and left me here
beached. Sifting
through
the muddy sand
of my tidal thoughts for
the point of it all.
Widowhood has made me
a close observer,
tactile and auditory,
raw. Willing
and yet afraid. Weak
and yet determined.
The bike circles me around
South Battery and I
return by the way I came
and find it more treacherous –
the various turns and crossings.
Still there is pink,
there are sails,
there are songs and
visions.
Abiding by my own code.
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