Sunday, December 20, 2009

Sky, Park, Air

Another free form written in church. What a heathen.

The sky hovers like spilled ink
Over the park.
His fingers tease her hand
And she grins.
They sit on the bench for hours,
Talking, planning, laughing,
Until he hears a voice
From behind a tree that whispers
Too low for her ears.
Contrite, he lowers his head
And walks away.
The air tonight numbs and pricks,
but she has nowhere else to go.

The sky burns red like licking flames
Against the park.
Another finds her standing alone
Under the magnolia tree.
Without saying a word
He kisses her long and hard
And she counts herself lucky.
They sit on the bench
For a minute or two when he says,
"Thank God for a girl like you
To make me feel happy,"
But even dogs tire of playthings;
Ennui smolders his passion.
He walks away.
The air this evening is thick
And sticks to her arms and legs,
but she has nowhere else to go.

The sky melts gray with ripe clouds
Against the park.
She clasps her hands together,
Looks out to the river
That cuts through the park,
And lets her eyes trace a single wave.
The air today swallows everything
In a dense fog,
But she has nowhere else to go.

She falls asleep on an iron bench
And wakes to find herself
Warmed by a fleece coat spread
Over her body.
She looks up at humble eyes
That match her curiousity with benevolence.
She knows him.
He sits down next to her
On the bench and says,
"Thank God for a girl of God.
Use me to show her Your love
And her worth."
She rests her head on his chest.
The air this morning is ubiquitous as always,
But she'd never know it.

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