What is this time?

by Jason Kesterson

What is this time then?

this brief nothing road,

nameless route between

winter and spring?

these weeks,

a park bench waiting for

the grounds around it to mature

and catch up.

what is this time then?

perhaps a bus stop that

has long since forgotten

fresh paint, neon signs,

and not so uptight

passengers

with brand new tickets

to always destinations.

what about spring?

what about the air that floats

in high and weightless,

the lavender, the lily,

the uncut raw emerald clovers,

the lovers and the loved,

occupying that sad park bench.

the song of urbania,

filled with busy mad cars,

bicycles,

and air conditioners humming,

that familiar wild sour colour,

God's fresh paint and neon signs.

this time then?

a blameless pause

before blessing.