The Writers At Newton ParkThe mist is silk to the slender neck of the lakeThe Writers At Newton Park5 days ago in Free Verse More Like This
and only two ducks have had the nerve to begin their day before me.
They slide across their glass dance floor in unison,
not so much a waltz as a dream.
I sit cross legged on the steps of an abandoned pavilion
and watch the sun lift its arms to orchestrate the beginning
of another morning.
There is no one else with their eyes unshuttered,
it is not yet six.
I can see my breath, my muttered words, as I write them down.
A small black shape draws arrows in the water and it is not light enough to yet know what he is.
The stone is frosted and it seeps through my jeans and grips my flesh, I don’t care.
It’s worth it to see the sky getting out of its bedding clothes and into the shape of day.
Its worth it to see the lake gradient from a mildly distempered hazel
into the temperate and serene slate of March.
The lake lives under the shadow of hills and houses
And is not afforded the full slow bloom of a sunrise.
It is given the bare m