Closed For the Season

Dec 14 2011

I slip into the park

in winter.

How odd, to be alone

where it was green,

busy, buzzing, lush.

No one wants to trudge

through thick wet snow.

Or be exposed

to the skinny limbs of trees,

stripped down

to bone.

The ground, the sky

are both a lumpy white

   —   concrete, left to set,

the dull weight of lead.

The land is at rest,

restoring itself

in this cool dormancy.

Summer’s excess

cold sober,

perhaps contemplating its regrets.

A brief sojourn

in this white asylum

for the badly behaved

and over-heated.

A strutting crow

caws accusingly;

a murder of crows

joins in.

Do they close the park

this time of year?

Some unwritten rule

I have transgressed?

Black mischievous birds

are contemptuous

of seasons.

They own the place

all year.