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Winter day. View of the Chicago River from the Lake Street Bridge.

This bridge is not
that graceful green arch,
spanning a sleepy lily pond,
toes deep in the dirt of Giverny.

No, this bridge is steel
and cars and trains and noise.
It is the conquering of a river
who’s heart beats backward blood.

But I can stand here,
alone against the frosty breezes,
to drop in hopeful healing wishes
and gaze through Claude’s thick glass.

And for a time, all is reduced
to moving planes and shapes of light;
to the dappling of deep emotion
and the pure power of color.

So I give myself to it.
I melt into shifting shadows,
the susurration of a willow's lacy sleeves
and the fragile memory of wisteria.




Comments

( 1 comment — Leave a comment )
hrhqod1
Jan. 27th, 2011 04:36 am (UTC)
"It is the conquering of a river
who’s heart beats backward blood.

But I can stand here,
alone against the frosty breezes,
to drop in hopeful healing wishes
and gaze through Claude’s thick glass."

Wonderfull allusion...

Chicago too is its own Garden...though not quite as temperate in climate.
( 1 comment — Leave a comment )

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