A plum drops onto concrete
next to my lawn chair
This tree, the one that sheds every August making jam
for the honey bees,
was that you
or the wind?
I walk the park’s path,
red cardinal in the branches.
A bouquet of cigar and roses swirl into my nostrils.
An unexplained fragrance
speaks to me through wind.
You see, the plums had me thinking
about the way you were sometimes:
A confetti storm of doves, ribbons and firecrackers produced from thin air.
Was it you
who startled me?
I look to my side.
Street performer nearby,
a magician tossing scarves,
Past the fountain only pups, children and hand-holders.
Enveloped by silence, I hear the howl of your laughter
when your sides really ached
and your face turned beet red.
I lament the twinkle in your eyes
Whisper without words, show me you are
I can only make sense when
you are near me.
Nothing gets in between Papi and his favorite.
Curl of the wind around my shoulders
and neck, tussling my tresses.
You play with my hair and
brush my cheek. Your gusts assure me to go on.
“Go on,” You urge, go on.
I am content to accept
you are one shade away from turning me
into a believer.
though in life you hardly were.
and the morning breeze.
Are you here?
I am a former reporter for the Chicago Tribune and a published poet often reading at Poets House. More information is available at www.dabadelic.com.