She must be ninety in her breezy
white linen long skirt
and broad-brimmed bonnet.
No smile for me
but only for her inconceivably older
husband
whose hand she holds as they
shish and shuffle through the leaves
(as dry as their skin and voices)
on an endless journey through the park,
holding hands and seeing it
in a way that those of us
with somewhere to go
cannot.
, , ,
Here they come back the other way.
He's in strawhat and suspenders,
Proud.
These never-enders
have no time for me.
But I love their Love in Autumn,
their Winterlove in Autumn,
and thank them for this lovely chance to see
the thing that ever seems unreal,
that Love goes past the need to feel
and thrives as deeply as the root
while lovely leaves
die underfoot.
1993
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