Crossing the Green

Light rain stitched the afternoon

with threads too fine

to keep anyone away.

Across the town green,

a woman walked diagonally,

two dogs weaving

their own delighted geometry—

circling,

doubling back,

finding reasons

to greet the wet grass

as though the world

had just been made.

There was no sadness there.

No visible burden.

Only the uncomplicated joy

of beings

content to belong

to one another.

Yet somewhere inside me

a quieter weather gathered.

I thought of all the others

who had crossed this same green—

hands clasped,

children racing ahead,

old friends lingering,

dogs long returned to earth,

lovers who believed

they had endless afternoons,

and those who carried grief

without letting it show.

For nearly four centuries

this modest square

has accepted every footstep

without choosing among them.

It has held spring’s first laughter,

winter’s hard silence,

the solemn pace of funerals,

the bright disorder of festivals,

the ordinary miracle

of people simply passing through.

It remembers

what we cannot.

Today,

it offered itself once more

to one woman,

two joyful dogs,

and a gentle rain.

Tomorrow

it will welcome someone else.

The green does not mourn

those who have gone.

It simply keeps making room

for those

who have not yet arrived.

And perhaps

that is its oldest wisdom:

to remain,

season after season,

while every life,

including our own,

crosses it

like rain

that touches the earth

only long enough

to leave it glistening.