My Manhattan
by
Barbara Barron

Morning sunrise over the East River; a ship gliding silently downstream.

Lonely Sunday on Wall Street. Resounding silence, as if the world stood still.

Open fields and meadows. Mighty trees leaping beyond reach. Slender sapling lovingly supported. Delicate petals falling to earth much too soon.

A glance upward and I’m rewarded with sky-high gardens.

A child buying a blue popsicle from a red-and-white striped uniformed vendor.

A kosher deli next to a pizza parlor next to a sushi bar next to a Chinese take-out.

The roar and speed of the Jerome Avenue Express train, soon to climb from the bowels of the earth to glide precariously on steel girders in mid-air.

Waiting for a slow bus while the rest of the traffic dizzily whizzes by.

Rowboats in Central Park. Carriers, ferries and oil tankers viewed from my window.

Joyful parades, fireworks, theatres, a midtown zoo.

Magnificent mansions converted into magnificent museums.

Blue sky and sweeping cloud formations decorating the glass walls of jutting skyscrapers.

Bright orange sunsets seeping through canyons of gargantuan purple monoliths.

Gilded roof tops calling attention to the city’s pride and glory.

Animated colored neons, lasers and strobes shocking the senses.

Diamonds and pearls jotting the black of night to form luxurious bridges dangling in limbo.

All aglow, tall and stately, the Empire State, the Chrysler and Twin Towers stretching above the horizon into the enveloping darkness, visible across the miles.

Moist springs, simmering summers, russet autumns, bone-chilling winters.

Circling over a vast blanket of crown jewels sparkling below is My Manhattan, always welcoming me back from distant shores.

I promise myself never to leave again, but the joy of returning to My Manhattan makes the homecoming even more exciting.