No puedo escribir en espanol
Solo un poco
Es triste
Por que
El español canta
El ingles no canta

Pero el parque mi canta
The park sings to me
As I roam freely
Over its richly textured green
Lawn peppered with clover,
Bright baby daisies
Diverse flowers of broad or pinpoint faces
Gleaming yellow, purple, pink and white,
presenting themselves to me,
and I expect there are yet many more kinds
just waiting for
Anyone really looking to see

As I meander over bumps and lumps,
the wobbly ground rises to meet me
wherever I take my day’s first steps–
at tennis court’s or playground’s edge,
on paved paths or in the riparian bed,
by the age-old creek
that once fed a rich population
of natives

A partly bark-peeled stump,
mostly uprooted in place
shines out at me,
tipped and fallen from the place where it lived,
polished, probably with rain and wind
and other weather…
I cannot help but stare, and gaze–
a few moments in my tracks
before I once more
pick up the pace,

dangling ivy from tall, whole trees
and invading thorny blackberry thicket
clothe this creek
in a modern, urban version
of wildness,
where transplanted species rule the day,
beating off conservationist efforts
to thrash them away
to restore the
irretrievable equilibrium
we can only really recreate in
imagined, artistic renditions
of what we’ve never seen nor strolled

But as the moments of today unfold,
foot before foot, I wander on,
mind far too busy
composing, thought by thought, this poem
to allow for complete relaxation
and free circulation, the loosed energy
of the infinite, the universe
that flows through me
just as much
as I let it

Writing a poem, I try to forget it,
just after a man I pass
good-mornings me,
I cry out
to shoo off a huge flying thing
bigger than a bumble bee
I wave my hand partly so he
Gets there’s nothing really wrong with me.

Feet back in step,
I walk by
clumps of redwood sproutlings,
each clump at the foot of the trunk
of their large parent tree
their fingerlike branch tips in yellow-spring green
burst fresh and juvenile
under their mother’s wing

I return to the trail
where I walked yesterday’s creek
and begin to slice off
a bit of the peace and wholeness
I seek,
casting a wider net
over my traveled territory
by stomping
over each nook, corner and cranny–
then, heading back home
in the still-young morning,
both refreshed and aged in just the right way
to better stride through the rest of my day.

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