THE CITY MAN DRINKS TOO MUCH AT THE PICNIC

To draw a line of words across a glade of green,
The dew, morning, a house blemished by strangler figs,
And yet a shadow reaches into the light and light itself glistens emerald green.
The city man does not know his character. Living is a monologue.
Every leaf olive and lime. He is not a patient man.
The forest beckons. What he knows is not a travelogue.
Each leaf takes on the shape of light, a softer shade of heather.
When the city man stumbles, he does not fall. Nor does he dialogue.
Some things matter less than matter more, the prairie sea green,
Jade, a touch of yellow, evergreen, a color to leather.
This goes unseen. A pity not to know green from smog.

Michael Brownstein