7 May 1993 / 2 October 2001

I stepped into England.
(perchance ’twas an illusion
in the middle of Oregon).
Shakespeare was there,
escaped from the yearly Festival
to return to more familiar ground.

I expected a crofter’s cottage
next to the tumbling creek
in the square of park,
and a villein tilling the soil.
Instead, a concrete theatre shell
broken at the edges like a stale cupcake
arose from the carpet of grass.

I spied the deep green grass
that tickled my nose when I lay back
and let the sun and the dew
seep into me.
It was so unlike California.
Here no drought had murdered the plants.

A child whined and I sat up.
He beckoned to his mother from the shell
(at the edge of the creek)
where he played by the teal concrete.
She motioned for him to come to her,
for she was heavily pregnant
and the grass too slippery for purchase.
He reluctantly obeyed.

I rose to investigate this greenery, so foreign and alive.
I took off my shoes and reveled in the
almost-forgotten sensation
of grass between toes.

Along one edge of the park was a low wall,
weathered stones half-hidden by vines.
I expected to look up and see a castle
and behind, a courtyard with knights training
and maybe a Shrew
or Juliet on her balcony.

Behind the wall
was Juliet in 4-inch spike heels
and flaming Mohawk.