A Morning Sketch of {Forsyth Park}

The peaceful sound of a trickling fountain gives the deafening command to stop and take a deep breath. To sit among so many trees and flowers in the midst of a bustling city is a much-welcomed homecoming from nature. The birds whistle their greetings, the wealth of fresh air rushes through me in healthful bounds, and I feel as though time really may have just stood still.



Not to say that there aren't enough people around to remind me that I am still in a metropolis. I've already heard at least a few unfamiliar languages being spoken by families to their babes as they take them on their morning strolls. Even now in the quiet corner that I have claimed, chattering passersby intervene and break up the silence. The squeaking sounds of swings come and go; children traveling to paradise and back in the length of a breath.



Walking through the market, I meet with a buzz of people with their children and pups, all crunchy with their Chaco's and beards and ink. The spice and warmth of basil coming from a nearby basket makes the open atmosphere feel as cozy and quaint as your best friend's kitchen. The farmers restock their tables: tomatoes, zucchini, carrots, cabbage. A hundred salads just waiting to reach their final destiny.




The outskirts of the commons are bordered by soaring columns, ornamental doors, vast windows of wavy glass. Houses that seem as though they should be waving the flags of some distant European nation instead of our red, white, and blue. Some stand seemingly empty, mostly forgotten. I wonder if they daydream of their past lives and hope for a new future, full of laughs and grand parties and quiet mornings steeped in coffee and crackling fires. Others still have a breath of life in them even now, strung with faery lights and colorful banners. Stray chairs sit around deserted, speaking of a recent gathering of kindred spirits.



The make-believe chattering of children can be heard on the wind. They run and skip, tossing little selfish quarrels and solving disputes in an innocent, democratic fashion. I wonder how many will remember these days, many years from now, and how many will let them slip into the cloudy, happy oblivion called childhood.



The purples, unearthly pinks, and reds of flowers send a rainbow over the green backdrop. A whisper from GOD, a poem from the Creator through HIS creation. A voice that commands a stillness, a pondering, a breath. A hope through the calm, a relief from the chaos, a song of future melodies.