Sometimes in Lithia Park one finds
on a picnic table an ephemeral altar —
flowers and greens in artful array.
Once I happened upon the florist
at work, bent over blossoms and ferns
like a fortuneteller over her cards.
“You’re the mandala maker!” I gushed,
but her expression when she looked up
froze the flood of compliments and thanks
in my mouth. Do you tap a nun
on the shoulder when she is praying?
Interrupt a mathematician
attempting to solve Fermat’s enigma?
She did not need my gratitude or praise.
At this wooden table by a path through
a city park all she wanted was to listen
to the burble and rush of the creek
conversing with the morning breeze.
I passed on chastened to sew up the rift
and restore silence I wish for myself too,
a not to be hastened softening,
the moment cedar-dappled sunlight
turns autumn air warm,
the ardent lift of a new aim.
