40th st / 39th st
4.82 miles
from blossoms by li-young lee
From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the boy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward
signs painted Peaches.
From laden boughs, from hands,
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.
O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into
the round jubilance of peach.
There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.
i listened to this poem as i walked today. the secret to continuing forward in this heavy heat is to walk in the evening, in midtown, or elsewhere the skyscrapers tower, so there is no escape of the shade.
by the end of the trek, i was blinded, had been staring too deeply at the sun, dropping to the horizon between two blocks of city (the east west streets, the perfect frame). it was hazy today, the heat present in the air, filtering the beams of sunlight through the metal scaffolding.
i witnessed these sights: a dog refusing to move from the sidewalk, exhausted by the heat; a pregnant lady, freckled, in a splendid jumpsuit; a taxi cab honking at me, oops; firemen smoking cigars in the firehouse doorway; a pomeranian wearing a bumble bee backpack sitting in their owner’s handbag (you can’t make this stuff up); sweat dripping off of a runner’s nose; a garbage truck; mother and son hold hands; a bottle of lemonade on the sidewalk; a lazy skateboarder; a hot dog cart being moved across the city; smushed sour patch kids; abandoned suitcases; lincoln tunnel; port authority bus station; a feather.
my to read list is never ending and ever growing, yet i often come back to the same books over and over. melina marchetta’s stories comfort me. i read not to absorb most of the time; i read to lose myself.
this summer has been good to me.
