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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=548228" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Chicago Sestina</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I am surprised by the streets of Chicago<br>when the palm of winter grips them with snow<br>as if to forgive the city’s mistakes<br>and give it a canvas that’s new, white, and clean– <br>its fingers, the branches on all of the trees<br>kneading the air that blows in from the lake.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I’ve never lived next to the pulse of the lake<br>(until I set foot down the side of Chicago) <br>breathing in through the streets and out through the trees<br>welcoming the cool of the wet, numbing snow.<br>It lets my mind slip into thinking it’s clean<br>as if to personally forgive my mistakes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">“But what have you done to forgive your mistakes? ”<br>Did I ask this? Or is that the voice of the lake? <br>Some days, not even does it appear clean, <br>worn down from its tall standing neighbor, Chicago.<br>It scrapes at the sky, asking it for more snow<br>to stick to and freeze the trunks of the trees.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">If I were a branch on one of these trees<br>incapable of making a single mistake, <br>I’d grab at the sky as it shook out the snow<br>and grow my roots thick till they tasted the lake.<br>But I wouldn’t bend to the force of Chicago<br>that’s constantly keeping me from being clean. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And what does it mean to try to be clean? <br>I don’t understand the stillness of the trees<br>when they’re being attacked by the size of Chicago<br>as if to glorify the city’s mistakes<br>that glisten like stars at night on the lake<br>before it all froze and was covered with snow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ah! To imagine how long there’s been snow.<br>How can something this old still feel so clean<br>and dance through the wind that swoops in from the lake? <br>Is it the kneading by the spiny branches on trees<br>trusting that there will be no more mistakes<br>that leaves these the only pure thing in Chicago? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here comes the snow that seeks out the trees<br>Am I now clean? Where are my mistakes? <br>Chicago belongs where it lay with the lake.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Brian+Maloney">Brian Maloney</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=548228" data-title="Chicago Sestina de Brian Maloney" data-description="I am surprised by the streets of Chicago
when the palm of winter grips them with snow
as if to forgive the city’s mistakes
and give it a canvas that’s new, white, and clean– 
its fingers, the branches on all of the trees
kneading the air tha..."></div>
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