Letter to Gary, written while I walked

Letter to Gary, written while I walked


Dear Gare,

         Sun wakens my dreams and I'm off for a walk.
It's that season when green clings to the end of twigs
not sure whether it's time to sally forth. They're new,
you see, unsure of the chill, yet trusting the Sun.
Do the birds feel this way too, sitting on the highest perch?
What do they see in us? The elm spreads out its green tinged lace
over the chapel roof, while oaks still cling to Autumn's past,
brown leaves bleached by Winter, hiding their new buds.
The South Park sycamores expose their veins, varicose and green
where bark's flaked off. Even standing by their massive trunks
to block the wind, I feel the chill that promises so much.
Most trees show damage here. The storm came through two weeks ago
and rearranged our lives, broke off some limbs. Now all's cleaned up,
but scars remain. I walk away among the seedballs of the sycamores,
the small white weeds, as a cardinal calls, unanswered and unseen.
I'd invite you here for breakfast, if I could! Each Saturday,
a group of youth come by to cook some sausage, fry some eggs.
They flip wheat pancakes on the grill! We eat whatever's offered;
they provide kindness most of all. And it's kindness
I crave most of all, dear friend. It puts a smile upon the day
when all else fails. Although, the hyacinths and daffodils
now do their part: purple fragrance, golden faced.
I'm walking past the Friendship Park and watch two young girls play.
I don't watch long. I pause to view the cherry buds, two blooms
and then move on. In sheltered spots, there's growth.
I wander into Aimee's coffeehouse and seek the waiting couch.
It's where I've called on Winter days; it guards the essence of my thoughts,
my joy, my inner tears. Here, I am safe. I wish you'd join in too.
A coffee for me. Tea for you? I treasure these dreams
when I go for walks. I hope your dreams as well come true.

Your meadowbreeze, your Kåre.


Kåre Enga

catalogue number: [163.8]
March, 2006.