counting

October, 1998

The grass still grows

from the old park steps,

as it did, when at 17,

I waited for you,

chill on the bench, as night fell-

separated by years,

not a hair’s breadth between.

***

So, this morning, I’ll pass

down that sullen grey stair,

all tallying, cast into the stream,

there murmuring beside,

and with the heart’s mind, recall-

You and I, and our time,

in a world, no more

than dream.