Habitual return into lands
of outer Philadelphia
highway along reeds and pale water
grey a source for exhale, exile
power plant giants call the edge
their home — these late afternoon
hauls and winding hum from lane
to dust-shaded pavement darkened
in deep-thought rain — always the bridge
is its blue, and its criss-cross beams ushering
lines of purring vehicles into city
limits — if paid attention to, the continuation
of palette over squat, viscous skyline —
“I am always here for your ponderance,
but not always worthy” — moving
makes reckoning, finds vantage point
in the continuum — smeared sky where
lit-white opaque of smoke stays
low, becomes everything else.
The cloud forest is where my quiet animal spirit glides up to go home. Amid the misting dew prickling on every underleaf, vine, fallen bark and tree the color of rosy, rustic sycamore and earth-rich dirt and feathering green a glow from the other world — the fog hangs still between flower and nettle, ravine and canopy, under the wild guava tree, holding its exhale while silence lays down upon the treetops. Serenity is held up in the furtiveness of condensation, in-between-ness of something about to happen, and the nothing of nature carrying on unobserved. The tranquility that rainforests do not always possess because of their vibrant and precipitous splendor — they are wild and bright while the cloud forest floats as a wilderness in a dream, blurred by memory’s shortcomings, a haven for the unconscious and the unnameable.
Monteverde Cloud Forest, Costa Rica
Inside the chapel at Girard College on Martin Luther King Day, with the Philadelphia Orchestra and CAPA high school choir.