In the Park

By Ahuva Goldstand

my fingers touch
the old stone
pink and grey
textured with mysteries, histories
hiding secrets
whispering tales like wind
through the old olive trees
can you hear them
my strong brothers rooted firmly
my colorful sisters fluttering by
distracted I turn
old men perched on folding chairs
like pigeons on a stoop
they flutter their wings
wag their tongues, wage their bets
throwing down cards like years gone by
in a whirlwind small petals
white and yellow they come
blowing through time to find me here
and with it I am intoxicated
the scent of honey
makes the air thick and sweet
even the silence here moves and shudders
far off cries of the market
throbbing, impatient, oblivious
distant voices carry through
old and new
a soft kiss, a gentle breeze
and I find my sanity
in the park

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Filed under Issue 1, Poetry

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