Sunday afternoon, I strolled through Central Park. The autumn trees are full of beauty, and the bluest sky is a silk fabric of silent peace. I thought of my poem, “The Weave Tree,” which I had written some years ago. As the words wafted through my mind, the splendor of each step reminded me of why I love being a writer living in New York City.

THE WEAVE TREE

There was a big tree in Central Park.

I walked by it for years at one hundredth street.

Then a giant storm appeared, swept it away.

I remember lovers fought, friends would meet.

Shocking eyes of runners, mommy strollers stopped to see.

Thunderous rains, Indian leaf butterflies flow in the mist.

Parents pondered, how did I forget to take a picture.

Suddenly, in disbelief, the next day, sunshine arrived amidst.

Tourist asked what kind of tree for your sadness.

Squirrels search for their nest, hurly burly they go.

Red-winged black birds sing songs of grief.

Dogs are aghast they don’t see their favorite relief.

The wind blows peacefully by the once weave tree.

As if my darling friend is standing high, timeless and free.

                                                               —W.D. Moore

Catch it if you can www.centralpark.org