The Arc

Lynda Lehmann c 2020 - All rights reserved.

The Arc

I drift on a thought, on the whoosh of a bough.

A giant oak umbrella.


Sky is grey 

but azure patches remain.

It doesn’t matter.

I see my consciousness in clouds

reflected in windshields.

Though just a child I feel special:

nature whispers to tell me who I am.

So many revelations!


With balm and tonic ever close,

storms are fleeting.


Smug with the privilege of secrets shared,

I need no reprieve from this conversation.


Trees have been hugging me since I was old enough to walk.

Two years old or maybe less, on a swing in a playground in Brooklyn,

I peer upward as 

I orchestrate the air.

Jubilant arcs beg the question, “What is the sky?”


How is it that I’m able to swing through the sky?


When I grow older, I realize that the sky conjoins

the infinite potentials of the universe.


And these halls might as well be a palace,

for I am rich.


Lynda Lehmann c 2020 - All rights reserved

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