| Now I know what it means to say
I know the streets, San Anto
Like the backs of my hands,
My hands having, an age of their own
Not yet, San Anton…
It is the City of the grove, green and magical
The living of it, intertwined as certainly and naturally,
As simply, as the river that turns through it,
Like the roots of the old trees in its neighborhoods,
A clove, a clustering, of collecting, sharing, of binding
It is (of) the grandness of the magnolia trees,
Broad like their leaves of dried velvet undersiding,
Dear San Anto we live with the birds just as surely as they have named their trees,
It is a beautiful neighborhood through and through,
A beautiful neighborhood….through and through
Woodlawn Lake, I keep going back to, in words as well as thoughts
And Brackenridge turns in subtle sounds upon my throat
And yet this stops my thought….something of it stops my thoughts
Maybe it is the landing, of thoughts
Their images complete and still,
The photographic stills of memory, stopped —
I like the space of words, I say
(getting lost in other thoughts),
But the city, the city
Whispers back, to me
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