The tree is small that overlooks the dark
and shining water drifting to the bay.
The picnic bench and swings denote the park
which gives the boys a place to run and play
while you and I trade love in every glance,
in every gust of wind that catches hold
of anything: our lunch, your hair. My chance
to shine is lost, like ripples in the gold
reflection of the tree. I hear you sing
into the wind of fall without a sound.
The boys have climbed the tree and now they bring
to you the childhood visions they have found.
There’s life, there’s water flowing to the sea;
there’s love that clings to every autumn’s tree.