Poets Walk

A gray New York day.
Rain is puddled near the bench
And there is a solitary figure
Appearing in the distance.

Denuded branches speak of a late fall day,
Photographed in black and white.
I wonder at the reflections on the still water
And the stillness reaches me.

Memory takes me to another day
When a saxophonist holds court,
Adding a lightness, that suffuses the pregnant
Plantings that will flower, creating May.

This day, the day of the photo,
Central Park is still,
Guardian statues, on pillars of stone,
Chose contemplation.

Fall colors and their detritus are gone
And winter will enter soon,
Brining smoke, from the mouths
Of runners and bikers.

I can pause and witness,
As the photographer entreats me to enter
This walk, that may not end,
Yet will not wait for tomorrow’s frost..