I know you best by the gray of your winters
when road salt coats the sidewalks
and a witch of wind rides down the Danube
whistling around pedestrians on your broad bridges
— except there are no pedestrians
— save for me —
river crossers huddle in yellow trams
or pack into the Metro that rolls under the river
I know your beauty can be unsullied
I’ve seen a Budapest in bloom,
under blue skies and cotton clouds
But your gray days lend a distinguished air
a melancholic miracle is birthed from gloom
a sweep of story,
a piece of poetry,
that would move a stoic to tears
And escape is always close at hand
for Kürtőskalács fires sunshine in my mind
city at the end of time
sprawling to the shoulders of reality
spilling into the sea
sprouting vents from the ocean floor
to breathe the collective exhalation
a planetary breath
bubbling toward the surface
but lost in churning seas
and wind tears through urban canyons
that crackle the surface
as seen from the satellite sphere
glints from a glassy past now subdued
plasma windows play a bucolic reality
that residents pretend is true
we are a mole people
in the under-story of a mechanized canopy
Taken on July 31, 2018 in Chicago.
I see a canopy of trees.
Wind-rolled like undulating seas.
A strange green scene from my balcony.
Seems like such a vast expanse
of trees tossed, locked in a dance.
From sidewalk, they’re of stalwart stance.
But from here they are an ocean to me.
Taken on June 29, 2018 in Mumbai.