Pennsylvania

Under a Great Grandfather American Elm

I wonder why the Statue of Liberty is iconic 

A day after hazardous smoke circulates through living beings lungs

Birds sing again above a graveyard

Leaves of the oak, maple, and elm flutter in unison

While I sit on a worn wooden bench blessed with lichen

Church bells sound a tune from a small town beyond a stone Quaker House replacing the redundant echo of screeching subways.

Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in New York City anymore

Crows swoop down and I’m reminded of every mornings’ summer soundtrack as a kid waking up in Hearthaven eager for the family beach day ahead of us

It took a long time to get here

But now I know what the boy from Baltimore meant when we stood before a group of Black families laughing and being themselves

He said with such dignified certainty, “I love my people”

I remember it all these years later

Because I’m not so sure I loved mine

After the Heart Earth cracked open from my parent’s divorce

I grouped everything pleasant with everything ignorant with everything white

My cousin told me at the bar before cancer grabbed his lungs at 28, Brooklyn is real. Real is rough 

That it had to be hard for me to be soft

Trivia nights at the local pub, tennis down the road, hikes in the hills, fly fishing in streams, the Quaker elders inviting me to join the old soul cemetery, puzzle pieces spread out on the living room table, the bearded man in the bed are calling me.