a book we haven’t read, the tenacious hope
of next year tangled in its bridges and highways,
beaming off the silvery water of a Great Lake.
are built into our bones, where you can step into a diamond
and hear an orchestra, or on any given day view a Rembrandt,
a Van Gogh, or hear poetry in a courtyard.
our crooked river, the Traffic Guardians
welcoming you across the great divide of east and west,
into multicultural streets and towns.
I no longer see smoke and filth - its former fame.
I see a place where Grandpa delivered ice, and
Dad played catch with a Cleveland Indian on the streets of the Heights.
in the glorious greenery of the Emerald Necklace
that we wear so well, with the fearless changing
of the seasons flowing in our lifeblood.
by Diane Vogel Ferri