XXXIV

THE WONDER OF OZ

I roll my bike away with great effort.

Then comes a shock but a welcome sight.

I have forgotten my old world.

Color bursts upon me like

a new spring, leaving behind

the swirling sea of doom.

I am stopped by the un-beclouded

world, the long unseen life-giving

sun who tries to welcome me back

to a gentle earth of clear breathable air.

Like a tourist seeing a place

for the first time, I study the sight.

I note with interest the somber

September palette: the plain of grass ahead,

spreading inside a pattern of graying

concrete pathways. There is no festive air.

The tiny city park is not filled

with the squeals of children at

school recess or loved ones

at a family picnic.

I note the land’s mature green,

the deep thoughtful blue

of the sky. I take in rust oranges,

cautious yellows and dusting

brick reds of the old buildings

all around. Color in this world

surprises me. I have lived too long

in the other place of grit and dark.

I have become accustomed

to the pervasive ashness. I am

a dumbfounded Dorothy

who leaves behind the vortex

of destruction and arrives

in bright and dreamlike Oz.

I feel my spirits try to lift,

but they do not. I am surprised

at the sunny scape, but

it does not make me smile.