Two Poems

A Sunday Walk At Indian Lake Park

As I begin my walk this Sunday afternoon, I anticipate encountering the small white frames, between 8 to 10 inches long, 6 to 8 inches wide and perhaps an inch deep. They are set on 5 feet high posts an about 10 yards or so apart along the trails. Inside each one there’s a poem. They are the main reason why I chose to come here today.

The wind feels warm and comfortable on my face like an invitation to come closer, an invitation to listen to these words from the past posted here just for me.

I walk along the trails very aware of every step I take. I’m afraid that if I don’t, I’ll miss one of the poems. My eyes are always wondering a little farther down the trail searching for the next poem. When I discover one of the frames, I walk toward it slowly. I want to savior every second before I can stand next to the post and read the poem inside the frame. Not wanting to disturb the space around the frame holding such precious treasure even my breathing slows down in anticipation of getting closer to the words in the poem.

The leaves of some trees are gone. Others shine under the autumn sunlight, showcasing their newly found colors. The leaves of the closer trees are reflected on the glass of the frame and I imagine them reading the poem along with me as the wind make them shimmer bringing color in and out of the frame.

I stand reading the poem. There’s a deep silence I don’t feel anywhere else, as if the poet stood by my side, reading the poem with me, getting pulled by the magical trails the words create for us. It’s up to us to follow them, to get lost in their weavings and detours until we arrive safely back to where we stood under the warm autumn sunlight being the same and yet changed.


Fluttering among the pink, yellow
and white snapdragon blossoms 
the wings of the white butterflies
could be confused for just one more
blossom on the tall spikes
when they land for food and safety
on the bell shaped flowers.

I look at them through the windowpane,
anticipating the moment when the white wings
are capable of perfect stillness, waiting
to share with them the moment of peace until the wind,
sometimes abruptly, puts an end
to the moment and everything becomes
snapdragon blossoms, white butterflies
and me looking at how the wind
rearranges everything.

— Nydia Rojas, Middleton, WI