Poem 37: Rail Trail Over the Connecticut River

I was comforted, watching the leaves
from the railroad bridge, while they
bobbed and drifted in the wind, flocking
above the river, mirrored in the water.
Eventually, they would splash down
at the same spot as their shadow.

All day, I'd been singing "Mona Lisas
and Mad Hatters" in my head,
or out loud, thinking of my own brushes
with bohemia. I can't decide
about Bryant Park, or standing
on a stoop in Park Slope
in a Greek fisherman's cap.
Heck, I can't decide about the ghostly
photograph of the water tower at night
at the university in Orlando.

My daughter held a branch with leaves
over her head. Her flowers, she said.
I tried to explain to her what
a confluence was, but the sidewinding
ripples didn't seem to matter to her,
nor the kaleidoscope of leaves.
She wanted to walk the dog by herself
down the bridge, and left me
by the first girter, contemplating a year
stamped in rust.