Yahara Winter

'If fame and money could last forever
the Han River would flow backward."
     – Li Po, "River Song"










Ice recedes. Ducks race overhead.
Yahara Park is a stark white field from recent snow.
Up over the bridge long-gaited neighbors
again make up a long line of passers-by
as it all melts, the sidewalks a thousand rivulets.
I watch from inside the living room,
as the white sun reaches in along the floor
as if staking new territory, warming the air,
turning the cherry wood to golden walls.
My mind returns to the canvasbacks
that crash down into the open water across the street
and a rush of excitement flies out me.
I feel the cold water below, warm air above.
The poem done, I leave all my work unfinished.
I wonder who would ever really notice.