ALBINO MORNING

Beneath a marshmallow sky

chewing last night's rain

in its fluffy cheeks,

we walk in Central Park,

wearing only light jackets,

on a soft chocolate path

beside a gated reservoir

with geese dining at its table.

We talk of nothing special —

party plans for New Year's Eve,

a return to work on Monday —

I tell you stories

you've heard before

of your dead father

when he was young

and newly married like you.

Our words wander with our feet

strolling in cozy sneakers, side by side,

across stone bridges, past joggers,

tipsy gray rocks, and naked trees,

all looping back to my gushing praise

for this luscious warm weather,

odd, at this time of year,

as an albino bear,

raising a white face and pink eyes,

for the camera I pull from my pocket

in hopes of preserving

the luminous absence of cold

on this albino morning

in this season of our lives.