Tessinparken By Monika Kostera

The thing about childhood places
is that they allow us

directly into their dreams.
We see how our own

are spun into and from
their fabric: the currents are clear,

and palpable, as storms and rivers.
The young woman with the bike has

a familiar stride, a swiftness
of the elbow I have seen before,

I am sure, thirteen
years ago, sitting

here, in this place, when it dawned
upon me that

the children who play here
would have

the same lining
of light in their dreams

as I do, that
they and I were connected

by the way laughter carries,
reflected off the warm cliffs

and the water surface.
People come and go, but the trees are here

always, the guardian co-dreamers.
Only they know our real names

and they wish us well. This park,
on a July evening,

is the only proof I have
of home.

(Amsterdam, 2016)

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