Their black gossamer wings
Hover above the water.
This is not nostalgia.
My home is here, not there.
It is just that I was born in that city.
The memory of my first breath
Stays synchronized
With the moving wings of iron butterflies.
The memory of my first heartbeat
Echoes the wake
That laps against the sinuous granite.
Madison, New Jersey
Suburban New Jersey. A small town. Home.
A delightful place, if you know how to delight
In the shade of majestic old beech trees;
In the glistening colors, the rainbow of flavors
Of the tomatoes, eggplants and apples
Filling the bins of the farmer’s market each Thursday;
In the September ritual:
Broods of wide-eyed freshmen
From a nearby campus,
Led along Main Street by the mavens,
Their resident advisors,
Who point out the town attractions.
The ice-cream shop – great milk shakes!
The train station – get to New York City in under an hour!
Suburban New Jersey. A small town. Home.
An enchanting place, if you are willing to be enchanted
By a secret sorcerer, an anonymous artist,
Who casts a spell over plain small stones:
Paints them with bright colors;
Adorns them with glitter, flowers and sweet sayings;
Leaves them half-hidden
Nestled in the grass,
Cradled by the tree roots.
Come, let us walk together.
Let us keep our eyes open,
Ready to make the acquaintance
Of these stone changelings.
Let us take in the quiet magic
That makes them possible.
