Parks & Rec: Brooklyn
Narrows Botanical Gardens

I walked to Bay Ridge’s Narrows Botanical Gardens for the third day in a row. But this time I planned to sit and write a poem.

Setting my intention seemed like a plan I had with another. Like when I go to bed to hear the thunder from under the covers. (Like the theater–you have to be in your seat before the show starts and hush the rest of your conversation. Though I’d just be hushing my head. Hush, Head! Please!) And the walking would be as romantic as the plan to sit and write, for me. I’d be cognizant of absorbing each step, allowing all senses to scan for inspiration. Feel! Gosh darn-it, we got ourselves a poem to write!

And I’d tell you what I wrote no matter what I thought of it. Because I always try to follow through. I am what I want from others, and what I want from the world. Oh boy. I haven’t even sat down in the flowers yet and I’m getting all gush. Time to pack my book bag: fake moleskine, Sartre (forgot), sunglasses, sunblock.

There are places we plant rosebushes

that smell like grape Bonkers

prostrate, the tickle of grass poking like a child

who’s something to show you

not quite urgent

though they’ven’t mastered

this distinguishment yet

nor learnt to surpress

nor learnt to overlook

the tickle of the grass

There are places we plant rosebushes

Each minute, a different bloom to see

in a new angle of the sun and in each new breeze

Some–perennial–sturdy enough to fight

on their own, absent of your care

(what we give without thought can be

far worse than withholding)

If you’re still enough

the birds will join you, convinced of your benevolence

this is a high compliment

That’s all I wrote. Dribble. I wanted to write more about oily slick Starlings but I stopped because I was unimpressed with myself. Lolz. So the rest of this post is all the beautiful flowers and my views on the walk home.