In the morning in all weather
laughing at Maxx's familiar bark
Jeanne and I walk together
to the Old Southeast and Lassing Park
. . . I will arise and go now and go to Lassing Park . . .
no that's a different poem ‘with clay and wattles made’ . . .
But Lassing Park is right In brightening dark
past homes cocooned in mist and shade
we rush to catch the sun lifting from Tampa Bay
our daily doubloon from nature's treasure chest
A colony of ibises measures out the day
pecking their marks four or five abreast
below live oaks and latticed cabbage palms
those featherdusters for the cobwebbed sky We turn
north on Beach the birds ruffling the bay calm
where dogs less calm yank uncombed owners Headlights burn
through haze aiming early workers toward highways
and coffee shops heavy eyes sliding sideways
toward the hungry sun on its own appointed round
Judge John M. Lassing
counted his blessings
peered into his heart
and gave us his park
All over the thirsty world its creatures turn toward water
in health and joy in need in desperation
Africa already drying America's shores
polluted by forces quick with false equations
Let's praise our Lassing Parks save and praise
them all: Vinoy Straub Poynter Pioneer
Demens Landing Flora Wylie Elva Rouse
Al Lang Soreno: just saying the names sheer
pleasure: Gisella Kopsick Palm Arboretum!
Elsewhere oil seeps under sullied beaches slurring
the seabirds’ cries Smokestacks by Apollo Beach
scrawl toxic messages in the sky blurring
the sharp rectangles of Tampa's towers
until the air's blown clean by gale or shower
and our park's long view can once again astound
We can save our waterfront parks
gods and the government willing
Heed the wild green parrots’ squawk:
No drilling! No drilling! No drilling!
O Lassing mine O Lassing yours O Lassing ours forever!
Its cedars hawthorn sweet bays pine preserve our civic health
by opening their fragrant arms to birds of every feather:
white brown black and mixed: our integrated wealth
strolls along the margin of the bay We breathe
the park's green acres soothing water Our hearts
rise with the tide with the golden trumpet tree
honey-throated as a tipsy robin Wounds start
to heal as joggers soldiers workers young and old
pass on every side: Hey Hey! Good mornin’! Where you been?
The world's wide and good or could be: good as the gold
that's dusted on our parks by sun and wind
Through hurricanes of man and gods through kind and wicked weather—
O Lassing mine O Lassing yours O Lassing ours forever—
May St. Petersburg's waterfront parks for all time shield our town . . .
In the evening herons nest
in oak trees bending toward the west
and the moon and stars on their hallowed arc
keep their nightly watch over Lassing Park