from a park in berlin

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


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.

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