Sipping Champagne in berlin
It’s not easy sipping champagne in berlin
Or anywhere really now,
But this day I had to.
Like a thousand Sunday afternoons-this one
Crystal-toned on my skin by now, or burnt
On my bones, or pressed into my palms, is
A Berlin park by water.
No one can imagine this gift-
Verdant city park, agleam in history
Shelled by shrapnel, and now fashion shows
Still brazenly gleaming as if nothing
Could kill it! And me sipping joy
In the midst of her
As if the sun were not enough,
The father Himself shows up
downloading glory for free–apple trees
and fresh cherry blossoms-a young girl dipping her hands
in the stream beside me.
the wisp of me, floating in the metallic memory of Germany
He, refusing to leave Himself or this city
Or me, instead tells us our story-
Gory parts not excluded. Glory parts
Unexpected!
As if the Father refused
To leave this mighty place of being
in Himself!
So, for me,
This park is a poppy resting in my palm, or His,
after boots have trampled orange petals into blood
what is left is love of us
for some unseen reason, and
On a Sunday afternoon, this park quietly proclaims:
Something within waits,
Regardless of wars, to burst forth!
This flower dust on my fingers today
(if that is what it is)
Is worth all the ink in the world!
And these bubbles in my crystal glass
are worth all these troubles.
