April
Eating alone,
I notice the forest preserve
across the way.
The taller trees barely show life:
further for the sap to rise.
The underbrush is fringed
in new-leaf green.
Soon it will be two years
since we carried you to
a garden you could not see.
The spot overlooked the water where
swans had delighted our children.
They are not children now
except in memory.
I weep for them. I weep for me.
4-17-98 (revised 4-19-01) --Harlow B. Staley
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