On the Poets Walk in Central Park

Resting on a park bench, I think on the lives of poets
who gave this stretch of gravel its name,

marvel at the power of biology and imagination,
both flowing through space and time, down sinewy limbs

and bursting to life at the ends of pens cradled in hands.
Their words fell like seeds from the beaks

of greedy birds and took root in the dirt. Years passed
and their names grew tangled in the roots beneath the feet

of passersby like me. Though still today grand trunks
line the path and leaves form a ceiling for women and men

to rest shaded, baseball capped on park benches,
and wonder about things like old lovers, and the age of trees.