Park Poetry

A quick poem I wrote after my snowy romp in Eden Park. Then some snow photos.

I set out in the snow, well-layered,
along the barren, slushy street to the park.
It's empty except for a brave parent pulling sleds full of children,
a homeless man, and
skittish, photographic-eyed loners like me.
Everyone keeps their distance from everyone else.

As I reach the lake, I begin too lope through the deep, icy snow.
Each crunch-thud is accompanied by
the ache of asthma and weak knees.
Sweat drips beneath my layer. I smile.
Then, without warning,
my face is buried in snow.
Laid out like an assassinated snow angel.
Rolling over, sinking deeper
I laugh the frost from my lungs and eye lashes.

Continuing my tromping
I take pictures of icicles, trees, sledders, stone walls.
Two red dogs gallivanting in the snow spot me.
They tear across the distance, excited.
I don't like dogs, I don't like dogs, I don't like dogs.
Attempting to be good natured, I pet them,
forcing my cold cheeks to smile.
Soon they're leashed again,
and I am gone up the hill.

There is a massive, red, I-beam, easel-like sculpture
outside the art museum.
I've never quite gotten it,
but it's stark and beautiful against the snow.
I wonder what artful photos of art are.
Art squared? The square root of art?
Is art math? Is math art?
It's best to capture a few images and walk away:
Art is not answers.

Back down the hill, I walk cautionless on the yellow lines.
The sidewalk is too treacherous.
The trees arch over, heavy and glistening,
beautiful crystal daggers waiting to strike.
The avalanche-like crunch of the snowplow
barrels around the corner behind me,
and I bound through the slush to the sidewalk.

Soon I'm home again, coffee in hand,
steam moistening my wind burned cheeks.