~an artwork beneath our feet, yet invisible to
our eyes, constantly changing ,interlocking
interlinking~

this poem has asked for composition
everytime, I walk upon and past the sculputure
beneath my feet on the Esplanade by The River

(Diatom Lace on the East River - Stacy Levy
www.stacylevy.com › projects › diatom-lace-on-the-east-river)  (1)

but as I daily hurry past (for years) and over this pattern form lifted from the
river's flowing,
a daily delaying,
for the words good enough to honor it, the invisible floating floral tentacles,
attaching each water molecule to the next,
do not arise of sufficient quality of wordsmithy,
the Whitman words do not float up from the waters rushing past,
and come to rest in my multi-tasking poetry conceptuals

many months, even years,
have gone by and after every water walk,
the sculpture stabs me guilty,
of procastination,
and an unwillingness to tackle it,
like the other tough stuff that haunts me

so this morning, when I drown in the file laughingly called
100 & One Drafts
a J'accuse (1) finger stabs my eyes and repeats the caveat of the sage
Hillel the Elder: (1)
If not now, when?

and even as I sit and compose,
the words refuse to surrender unto me
for easy transcription
and the chest tight with guilt, from all the
promises I've made and remain
unkempt & unkept,
that stunt and stun my spirit,
with inconsolable sadness

So
I distract myself,
check the sleeping woman<
take my morning meds,<
reheat my "The Gamblers Mug" (Cezanne)(1) of morning coffee,<
and alas, at last, once more surrender to my worst,
and issue an invitation to >you<
come visit me, come walk with me,
perhaps together, a greater good will emerge,
and we will feed each others tongues
with syllables and sounds,
that will trigger,
go figure!
a suitable poem
worthy of a great art work,
the lace of diatoms
in the water,
that our eyes cannot see,
but our hearts
can feel
and with better words,
be so honored,
by a poem
truly worthy
of this

miraculous
conception

The river flows here and goes
Under the wooden floorboards,
Under my happy, shoeless feet
Walking the bridge behind the roads.
Shh, listen: listen up close.

Leaves, many, plenty to touch.
Rustle: speak the winds from here,
The river seems a little trickle
Beside my grateful, rippling tear,
Flowing down my cheek in cheer.

Trees in bounty, near and far,
Gifts for us who cherish the presents.
Far on the riverside, there on the hill and
Here by the bridge in perfect presence,
Hiding, then shining a golden magnificence.

The evening sundown. Red on the river
And crisp dressing for velvet clovers.
The scent of nature, of everything, resounds
Much as the blues of the river flow over,
And I breathe it in: a breezy windhover.

Perhaps, back home, I would only imagine:
Crimson reds and riverbed blues.
Now, out here on the bridge by the river,
I take this home in ones and twos.
A walk in the woods: my reds and blues.

i've always been a stream
ever flowing
ever changing
carving my way through the earth's tender skin
whispering ancient secrets to the stones newly birthed from the mountain's embrace,
their edges sharp with youth.
i mourn the fleeting death of grass
knowing it will return,
yet feeling each loss as if it were the last.
i greet the birds that dip their wings in my waters,
the trees that shade my journey,
the life that springs and fades along my edges,
each moment, a momentary reflection
in my endless course.
i move on,
carrying memories that dissolve in my depths
until all that remains is the motion,
the ceaseless forgetting.

i've always admired the ocean,
vast and ancient,
cradling life beneath its dark, unknowable surface.
it bears witness to the birth and death
of a million dreams
yet holds onto the bones of forgotten worlds
that rest in its silent, sunken graves.
unchanging, it reflects the sky's face
absorbing the storms
but never surrendering its secrets.
the ocean is stillness,
a deep, solitary wisdom
i've always longed to be.

oh, to be the ocean,
to hold the weight of history in my depths,
to be vast, to be constant,
to be silent,
but never alone.

Calm night,
serene beauty,
fireflies dance,
the wind caresses the lily.

A ray of moonlight,
kisses a drop of river,
it glows,
summon the fairies.

One day we shall meet by the river’s quiet sweep,  
Where blooms, like secrets, in the garden sleep.  

On the right, the florist, her hands so soft with care,  
Tending to fragile lives that grace the air.  

To the left, the trees, so patient, dark, and wide,  
Their roots in silence, where the shadows hide.  

Their limbs, like whispers, reach toward the sky,  
As though they, too, have learned the art of sigh.  

Above us, the moon, pale, her glow so still,  
A quiet sentinel against the night’s cold chill.  

She watches, steady, as our hearts unfold,  
In the twilight hour where time turns gold.  

We shall meet when time, like rivers, winds,  
And silence speaks the language that the heart intends.  

Not in a rush, but in a soft, sweet flow,  
Where blooms, and trees, and stars bestow.  

The river hums a tune so deep,  
The flowers bow, the trees do keep.  

Their silent watch as we draw near,  
A meeting born of calm, sincere.