Wednesday, December 5, 2007




Enveloped in a drifting mist, she slips
through the ornate golden and wrought iron gate
that leads into Shakespeare's hidden Garden.
She chooses from among Shakespearean quotes,
affixed to a brick wall on metal plates,
one she will use when it seems...apropos.

Now, she blades to the bandstand shell,
where a black-bearded man pounds a marimba
before a motley crowd which does tai chi or yoga
in front of a willow-green grove of sycamore trees.
She swoops around the stage like a bird,
then lies prone and takes eye-high pictures
of iridescent, popcorn-pecking pigeons,
her dark hair still curled from the morning fog.

Cool white cloud gone, the sky a light iris blue,
she snaps dragonflies, lustrous as jewels,
dipping into the sunlit, melodious brook which flows
past an ivy covered museum wall.


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