The Volunteer Park

I was told I missed my chance to relive my childhood after not participating in the much spoken of 

game of tag. But I know that is one chance that is never missed. I am alive as a child every time I 

set my eyes on the unknown.

Why put into words my experience at this park? The poet in me says no on this one. I have absorbed,

and feel no need to reproduce or describe.

The sensations felt by myself and many others remain alive in it still. Go there and share in it, I say.

Yes, it is beautiful. 

What this park is to me now?

A sickly little fish weakly swimming sideways, weighed down by its misshapen belly, as human eyes are turned towards the beautiful. As jaws are dropped in awe of the lighting, the shadow, the overwhelming day.

The same things that are seen over and over again until they begin to lose original meaning.

Real appreciation.

Unaware of a little plea going unheard.

In one of many little ponds that seem so much less, but are so much more, worth admiring.