Broome Street

The streetlight aspires to a small role on Broadway,
And the traffic cop fancies that he was born king.
The pigeons peck pennies and wish at the fountain,
To trade their anxieties for songs they can sing.
The taxi cab wishes that he was a tugboat,
The dockbuilder whistles and dreams he’s a bird.
While only the poet—and just for one moment—
Sits silent and content, alone in all the world.

January 21, 2019

The Aster and the Goldenrod

I asked the crimson Sassafras

For a mittened helping hand.

“I must bring autumn home,” I said

To the yellow Maidenhair.

But the Sassafras just smiled and sighed

That he had other plans.

And that Ginkgo giggled down the lane

And left my basket bare.

I hiked the blazing mountains

‘Neath the Maples’ ring of fire,

I bartered with the Aspens,

For to procure their neon glow.

But the Maples would not spare a brand

Though expansive was their pyre.

The Aspens said, “No deal,”

And shushed me down the valley below.

With empty hands and heavy heart,

I trod the pasture lane.

No autumn in my arms to charm 

My own Autumnal Queen,

Denied by forest branch and bough—

Each tree’s answer was the same.

The splendor of their canopy

Inaccessible to me.

But as I turned at last toward home

And squinted toward the west,

My eye alighted on two flowers

Canoodling with a bee.

At last I’d found the hues of Fall

That fit my hand the best.

Now the Aster and the Goldenrod

Are coming home with me.

October 2020