Mar 23 1998
In the park on the terrace,
at the southern border of the city,
there’s a stream
and a footbridge
and a mother duck
with her seven, eight, no nine
brown and fuzzy,
nascent and cranky
old men in new waddling feet.
It’s so sunny and
I am so relaxed.
“I am on holidays!”
in a new and gentle city and I’m
far away from home and very happy.
I get up from taking my pictures on the grass
and walk along the stream through the park.
There are a group of Aboriginal men enjoying a liquid picnic.
The sun is on my hair and on my back,
warming the jeans in front of my thighs
from the dampness of the earth.
I beam a smile and a grey-haired, yellow shirted
member of the drink picnic smiles at me back.
I raise an open hand, a motionless wave,
and he walks over.
“You are so beautiful,” he says.
“and God bless you.
You have a beautiful personality.
Thank you for being you.”
I thank him too.
I thank him for thanking me
and for being so kind.
It is all invisible matter
but not to him.
He sees it.
I feel it.
I am radiating.
I have so much love to give today.