The color of slow

(A reflection on Christo's "gates"
across a wintry Central Park.)

Saffron or orange,

call it what you will,

7300

         gates

                 one

                           every

twenty

feet

          or

                   so

                            for

                                       23

                                                  miles,

                    down paths,

           across                                              broad

concourses,

                                                  over

                                          single

                            boulders

                     and through fields of

                                                      
                                                         white,

like the flags of some

        flamboyant

                         nation

of

        walkers,

              laying down ebullient

words

         in

                 forty

                          some odd

                                   languages,

                                             on

                                                        a

                                                                brilliant,

                                                                       cold

                                                                    day

                                                             in

                                                     Central

                                             Park

                                                             in

                                                               February.