The Living Bridge Poem by Tor Magnor Solvang

The park is a pillow of quiet and green,
A soft, breathing space in the city machine.

While subways run roaring in tunnels below,
The oak trees stand still in the moon's silver glow.
The streetlamps cast shadows on pathways of stone,
Where a fox slips along in the darkness, alone.

The pond acts as glass for the tall, glowing towers,
Reflecting the neon on lily pad flowers.
A duck tucks its head near a bike rack and sleeps,
While a bullfrog sits loud in the grass and it peeps.

The concrete is buzzing, the sirens cry out,
But the park holds a peace as the bats fly about.
Then morning breaks soft over treetops and glass,
Painting ribbons of gold on the dew in the grass.

The joggers and birds wake up side-by-side,
As the curtain of night is pulled open and wide.

The engine of steel and the rhythm of pine,
Meet here in the park at the morning sun's line.