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| 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
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
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
