Squinting through eye-slits in our balaclavas,

we lurch across Washington Square Park

hunched against the wind, two hooded figures
 
caught in the monochrome, carrying sacks



of fruit, as we’ve done for years. The frosted, starch-

stiff sycamores make a lean Christmas tree

seem to bulk larger, tilted under the arch

and still lit in three colors. Once in January,



we found a feather here and stuffed the quill

in twigs to recall that jay. The musical fountain

is here, its water gone, a limestone circle

now. Though rap succeeds the bluegrass strains



we’ve played in it, new praise evokes old sounds.

White branches mimic visions of past storms;

some say they’ve heard ghosts moan above this ground,

once a potter’s field. No two stones are the same,



of course: the drums, the tawny pears we hold,

are old masks for new things. Still, in a world

where fretted houses with façades are leveled

for condominiums, not much has altered



here. At least it’s faithful to imagined

views. And, after all, we know the sycamore

will screen the sky in a receding wind.

Now, trekking home through grit that’s mounting higher,



faces upturned to test the whirling snow,

in new masks, we whistle to make breath-clouds form

and disappear, and form again, and O,

my love, there’s sun in the crook of your arm.
 
By Grace Shulman.