The sun, first blinding,

gets gentler with time,

as running slows to walking,

then to sitting,

and to talking.

After it sets, softly,

we keep our legs crossed tight—

tucked in like a bedsheet—

and welcoming the night.

Matchstick benches dress our set

with garden-gravel rocks:

the park that surrounds us

is carried in a shoebox.

Someone found these pieces

and put aside some space,

they looked

and thought

about the land

then glued them all in place.

I’ve never met a Park-Maker,

nor have I a god

but nonetheless, I thank them,

for everything we’ve got.

We walk across the meadow—

the dark is coming soon—

it’s time to clear our seats

and leave them to the moon.

And I will be careful, yes,

not to disturb this

meticulous diorama—

of slides

and grass,

then trees,

and swings—

assembled just for us

by whoever makes these things.