Where the Commons Is

 

In my core, I hold

an old-style public commons--

a Zócalo of the heart—

with benches, gazebo, bingo game tables,

public flower/herb/vegetable gardens,

blanket vendors of shirts/pottery/carving,

and cart venders of sweet ice, pretzels and corn on sticks—

antojito for the mouth and mind. 

 

The commons in my heart is a place known and safe.

Though common is a dull word, in its middle

nestles a comforting mo/ma of nurture

to imagine or remember or visit.

I've visited to read/converse/walk

and to join events and rallies promoted

on the internet or by word-of-mouth,

calling me out to non-computer social space.

 

And my spirit seeks out the commons

to walk in memory with ancestors,

to fly kites with pigeons and forefathers,

to race with brothers and sisters, freeing our legs

from constraint and hugging at the finish line,

sweaty and happy, to listen to mothers' and grandmothers'

circles of story and food, oral wisdom

with open invitation to participate.

 

Here we meet neighbors and refugees,

immigrants and lost relatives including trees,

plants and animals we finally recognize.

This paradise incorporates change,

death, danger, and bad weather

in an atmosphere of mutual aid, open hands,

and common awareness of safety, the sacredness

and blessing of our presence in the heart of life.

 

for earthweal weekly challenge: THE COMMONS 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

If you quote, credit this page.

© 2022 Susan L. Chast