Artless Blue Benches

I’m rearranging the sidewalk
With my mind,
In the dawn-like spaces
Of magic hour light.
Behind me is a sea,
In front of me a street,
And if I had to dive into one,
I’m not sure which
Would leave me colder.
Hawks are circling
High above me,
Dipping their wings
And soothing their brilliant bellies
In the wavering daylight
Of the second bright day of spring,
Hours decaying
Like empty shells on the sea bed.
Passersby crash like waves
Against the stretching maple shadows.
I’m afraid to tell them
That they won’t ever die.
No one wants to know
That there is nothing to dread.
Ask them and they’ll lie,
And then you’ll know.
I’m beginning to think
That I’m imagining that tree.
That crow would have me believe
I’m crazy.
But I don’t even see it anymore.
I can’t tell what I’m recognizing,
Something familiar
In the shades of green
Against brown walls
And white wisps of atmosphere,
The leftover gold leaves
Under my boots;
Not just a season or a place,
But something akin
To the elusive lost sense of home.