Blue-light skies, patched with pieces 

Of cotton; sutured within the glare

Of the blazing sphere.

Pigeons, bluejays, and squirrels-

As if playing hide-and-seek under

The trees- perfected the morning 

Cheer and vivid imagery of a stroll

In the park.

You sit alone, but not alone- arms over

Head- on the park bench.

Right from you, sits a boy on a swing

Above his toy, just content and still, 

Still of his non-coping with the world.

Left from you, sits an old man- quiet, 

Yet filled with a wanting chatter, contemplating 

The boy's  young life, as if saying:

Good old days.

But you merely sit between them both,

Focused and content.

And after a windy breeze, after a pickup of 

Leaf patches, after a mother-call 

Heard from behind your right ear and after

A whistle behind your left ear, you 

Pickup your pencil, tear out a piece of paper,

And you write a poem.