the symmetry, oh the symmetry of this time. tomorrow is ten ten ten.
i try not to miss the pleasant bumble buzz that surrounds the rumble russ of grand army plaza on a saturday morning. the farmers market is bustling, the library has its epic, gilded doors flung open to the people, and the brooklyn botanical garden is scotch free from 10 to 12. i am in the garden, shoes and socks off, sun speckled, leisurely devouring vijay prashad’s, the karma of brown folk in the long meadow next to the rose garden. hint: the ones where the bees drink, those roses smell the sweetest, tell the deepest. the trees link arms above me as i walk back to my bicycle. below me, a velveteen carpet of green, branch shadows spell don’t be mean.
a beautiful new york city fall day, in that melancholy way, everything is changing.