Hartman Park is a dense little forest,
of towering pines and sprawling maple.
The soft new grass is fresh and moist,
Its blades tease an early spring beetle
A kid brother in the play-set nearby,
Shrieks at his older sister; the girl mellow n
forgiving as the pliant grass under me,
Their grandma smiles, serene under the sun
Sprawling down I look up, the wind whistles,
Shivering yet from the memories of winter;
Amid the tall green pines are patches of blue,
And a huge flotilla of white clouds astir
The clouds puff and heave, restless,
as though they still own the heavens.
The breeze – gentle but firm – prods 'em on,
Pushing them to the horizons
A vast sky lit up and low, beckons me to rise,
and feel the peace of my eternal home.
A brawny pine – or is it my hand? – soars straight up
Past the clouds and touches the deep blue dome!
Abhay B. Joshi