by David Stone
It’s not world peace
not even the end of hunger
It isn’t fairness, respect
or inspiration
A search for words
futile as perfect love,
a tune heard early
then lost among songs
It isn’t even brotherhood
Tuning fork you are
the search for perfect pitch
harmonies lifting
within a symphony
more dense than Turangalîla
In the careful curve of time
something wants to bend
just so, to curl
around the note
and lift the endless music
slightly
Recommended: Time Passes
What the Promenade Remembers
A morning walk, a small act, and the quiet difference between what we notice and what we leave behind.
The light on the East River in the early morning is different from the light anywhere else on the Island. It comes in low and sideways, catching the water in long, uneven flashes. On certain days it makes the promenade feel less like a walkway and more like a corridor someone once meant to finish but never quite did. When I was younger I found the suggestion to stop and look at it faintly ridiculous.
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