2 miles around the park
that was an oak-studded tangle
when I was a kid—
now tiny mammals swarm
these playing fields on weekends
with all manner of balls and bats,
cleats and grownups with
whistles who try to keep order—

and I quick-walk 5 laps around
the perimeter of tranquil turf
on Mom Mondays as she lies on
the acupuncturist’s table across
the street, before we go to the gym,
then lunch, then errands, then
home—

though the details disappear
as I stride through the shiny
day after rain has washed
the place clean, as survivor oaks
pose prettily for a photo, clouds
and sun lending their texture
to a puddle, a mild west wind
carrying seeds of thought into
the world via fallen acorns and
their jaunty berets, planting ideas
and not a little bit of hope in
as many places as possible.