Thoreau Said It

“Not till we are lost, in other words not till we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves, and realize where we are and the infinite extent of our relations.”
― Henry David Thoreau, Walden

Still getting lost
a little bit more
to find herself. Criss-
crossing Central Park
in the Ramble
passing by the Gill,
she laughs aloud
at the promise
of accidental
disappearances. Lean
into it and go
with a random choice
when the path forks. When
fear of planes
losing altitude fades
into the amplified echo
chamber of a sax
being blown
under the Glade Arch.
The sun offers some
answers, but she’d rather
have black cherry, black locust,
oaks, sycamore, and cucumber
magnolia trees camouflage
them. Rather forget
to panic this time. No
deadline surrounding this land.

Good Earth Friday

Bucked on her own bicycle
through Central Park in the rain. Blue

Man Group was still blue
babies recovering from that original choke

without tubes. Never knowing
the price of gas anywhere. She could no more

identify the car you drive than you could
label her a type of flower that grows through cracks

in the sidewalk. Could be any day—she chooses
to call this one her station.