Barry Vitcov

Prayers for Empty Spaces

The park row has been denuded of trees

ornamental plums no longer litter the sidewalk

with their seasonal waste

pretty as they pleased.

Others labeled a nuisance

hacked away from their roots

with axes and grit who since

were forcibly wrestled and towed 

from their earth’s growing places

chipped and scattered

like unfulfilled curses.

Holes, voids, loss from disease

occluded branches like crooked 

tea-stained teeth:

excuses given 

for their growing to cease.

Shall we mourn winter’s skeletons

after a full life in summer?

Shall we replant in fall 

and celebrate new birth in spring?

Shall we say a prayer

full of hope and consequence? 

The emergence of emptiness

borne of struggle

invites gnarled hands to secure 

with water, wishes and aging compost

maples, tupelos and feathery birches

when meaning becomes something 

more than mere searches.

Soon new birds’ nests grace

street-side forests

like woven offerings

for hope and resolution:

Prayers for empty spaces.

 

Ducks and Demonstrations

two ducks bathing and preening

without pretense or other meaning

because it’s never necessary in cool water

is their activity any less important than mine

or that fallen limb across the creek

connected even in death 

to the wooded neighborhood

spread out like an inverse sky

streams move with repetition

like a numbing rondo or soothing lullaby

regardless of the time of day

or what anger is taken to the streets

beating noisy shouts

for justice and equality

it might be a long summer

after last fall and winter

and a deep breath in fragrant spring

starting hot with dry blisters

and a sense of languidness

before another odds-on prediction

for a call to arms

like knowing ducks will bob for seed

worms, water snails and pond weed

regardless if we’re paying attention

or not

 

Lessons Learned on a Morning Walk

A normal morning walk

Abbey at my side

sniffing messages left by other dogs.

I say hi to Michael and his corgi.

You look familiar he says…

with the question mark

we all share at a certain age…

the doubt that comes with 

recognition but no name.

I remind him with a gentleness

of understanding.

Oh, yes, your hat and sunglasses

caused uncertainty…

we are all enigmas before

we remove our disguises.

Abbey cocks her head as though

she is politely doffing a hat 

and we continue on our way.

There’s that familiar lady,

a fixture in the park,

with her floppy straw hat

and a look of constant wonderment,

an exploding world of joy

while in her invented community

voicing a barrage of happy birthday,

happy birthday, happy birthday

a gatling fun gun of fond wishes

to everyone she greets

along the park’s streets.

She’s an equal-opportunity

happiness machine

proving sanity might be overrated.

I wave and thank her

not sure thanks are enough

but feel the ease 

that enigmas have meaning

beyond our understanding.