| This Park |
We appeared not long after sunrise this morning.
So many fortuitous conditions had to converge for us to
become: wind and time and cold and light and the presence of
small beings passing by just at the right places, with the right
intentions and imagination, and tradition and play.
We grew out of a snow-covered landscape like miniature
sentries standing post.
I’m positioned ahead of a cobblestone bridge, on a wall made
when this city and this grand park were young to men and
women. Ahead of me, across the stone archway and beyond the
stream beneath, lies the great lawn. Behind me are the majestic
walls of proud buildings, standing watch over this natural
wonder, this Central Park.
For today, I am not alone. Other like me have sprouted up along
pathways and sidewalks and open lawns where children play, by
the lake, nearer to the avenue, by the boat house and near the
horse drawn cabs. We are many on this snowy day, in this grand
park, so many white miniature statues. Most of us will be gone
so soon; others might last awhile longer, but none so long as
these stones, these trees, these animals, and our very own
creators.
Imperfect as we are, I, with one twig arm and two cobblestone
eyes (but, alas, no mouth to speak) am far more fortunate than
another compatriot, whose creator never gave him a face at all,
or another hastily made friend with a misshapen head. We all
fare better than our neighbor whose body has been scattered
by play after his creator left him for other distractions.
We do not cry, for we know that our fate is one of
impermanence, like all things. Wind and rain, over time, will
erode even the boldest rock in this garden of man. But, for now,
we occupy this space and we belong; many conditions came
together under this sky for us to begin.
Alas, like the mighty mountain we shall return to the earth and to
the sky and then to the universe and we will find a new
beginning - maybe in this place, or this city, or this world, or
maybe not.
On this day, the small, warm hands of our sculptors gave us this
place and these moments and we shall remain until the warmth
returns - maybe tomorrow or maybe not. We do not know, for
time is beginning-less and endless, in this park.
Michael Domino
So many fortuitous conditions had to converge for us to
become: wind and time and cold and light and the presence of
small beings passing by just at the right places, with the right
intentions and imagination, and tradition and play.
We grew out of a snow-covered landscape like miniature
sentries standing post.
I’m positioned ahead of a cobblestone bridge, on a wall made
when this city and this grand park were young to men and
women. Ahead of me, across the stone archway and beyond the
stream beneath, lies the great lawn. Behind me are the majestic
walls of proud buildings, standing watch over this natural
wonder, this Central Park.
For today, I am not alone. Other like me have sprouted up along
pathways and sidewalks and open lawns where children play, by
the lake, nearer to the avenue, by the boat house and near the
horse drawn cabs. We are many on this snowy day, in this grand
park, so many white miniature statues. Most of us will be gone
so soon; others might last awhile longer, but none so long as
these stones, these trees, these animals, and our very own
creators.
Imperfect as we are, I, with one twig arm and two cobblestone
eyes (but, alas, no mouth to speak) am far more fortunate than
another compatriot, whose creator never gave him a face at all,
or another hastily made friend with a misshapen head. We all
fare better than our neighbor whose body has been scattered
by play after his creator left him for other distractions.
We do not cry, for we know that our fate is one of
impermanence, like all things. Wind and rain, over time, will
erode even the boldest rock in this garden of man. But, for now,
we occupy this space and we belong; many conditions came
together under this sky for us to begin.
Alas, like the mighty mountain we shall return to the earth and to
the sky and then to the universe and we will find a new
beginning - maybe in this place, or this city, or this world, or
maybe not.
On this day, the small, warm hands of our sculptors gave us this
place and these moments and we shall remain until the warmth
returns - maybe tomorrow or maybe not. We do not know, for
time is beginning-less and endless, in this park.
Michael Domino
© 2008 by Michael Domino
