Menlo Park

I was leaf struck
by sunlight. I remember
the sensation of my greenness—
making greenness of the regaling breeze.
It wasn't a mistake to see myself
as indistinguishable from rain.

I often rained.
That hasn't changed.

And the ducks and drakes, skittering across
the mirroring pond, destined:

I was drake and pond; I was sunlight
on silver water. I was homelessness;
I was a dove cooing in the library's eaves;
a dove's rustling was my heart,
in the shadow of the eaves.

I was the hawk's avarice, defeated
by my opalescence, my cowardice.
But on certain afternoons I was rain
greening a leaf, a breeze carrying
the dove's low cooing. I was

Memory and disbelief, and delight greened
The cemetery stones in Menlo Park.