Fairmount Park, Philadelphia
We have plenty oxygen.
Every separate peace rustles in trees,
expands in breeze, and crisscrosses seas
of asphalt and inconspicuous disease.
The healing fills cathedrals of hearts
veined leaf by leathery leaf soon to fall.
Somehow we can inhale our fill
and have even extra still,
maybe twelve spare baskets by miracle.
Saturday, November 4, 2017
Topic(s) of this poem: miracle,sharing