<p>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 […]</p>
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.