The character of spending a summer day
alone in Portland is so different
from solitude in Brooklyn
that I can't feel I'm doing
what I would anywhere; that still I am myself.
A long leisurely walk to think in,
plenty of water shy funny glances
from the children on the swings
and sitting under a tree
watching the light fade over some roofs, hungry
for the geometric certainties it leaves
behind there is wind, always more swirling
around me and i'm in a field of clover.
It's all impossibly soft and i don't know what to do but to touch it.
I've been here before. every time it's still
the same place in me and in the air;
the rustling a reminder that it's not emptiness
i seek, but grace.
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