April Evening, Crosstown Bus

We pass the church whose grey stone spire
thrusts its heft over Central Park West;
lumber into the transverse
that cuts through Central Park.
Outside the bus windows, sun bands new grass.
Inside the bus it grows dark
as trees fresh with leaves arch overhead.
Fluorescent lights we hadn’t noticed were lit
cast their cool gleam on a woman’s book.
Like a peony, white pages bloom.

-- Jean Balderston