by Josh Bishop
The trees in Prospect Park are bare today.
Dead leaves from last year’s fall like dander lay
in flakes along the shoulders of the lawn;
denuded, veiny branches break the sky,
varicose against the shiftless, brooding clouds.
Deserted paths and dust-blown sidewalks yawn
and raise their arms as if to question why
this sapless barrenness, and where the crowds.
Remember when these trees were full and green,
when children’s laughter echoed through the park
with crack of ball and bat — and on the breeze
(with just a hint of chill) a few monarchs
flitted through setting sunbeams in the leaves
as summer daylight slowly slid to dark.
Josh Bishop Writes 