Waiting for the light to turn
green I watch evening descend
on the park; a scarlet rise of sky
behind a stand of alders.
At the corner, a mother waits in tweed jacket
and brown tights, her carriage held before her.
The baby under a blanket of lumberjack plaid.
Piano chords from a nearby window
guide leaves to the ground. In that instant
I thought my innocence had returned—
or maybe faith. But faith in what? Time?
Seasons? The blind consistency of nature?
I held the notion for only a moment
and hoped the song would not change
the mottled sky, the mother, the child, the trees—
all on their way. It is not tragedy
that compels such thoughts, but routine,
comfort—like holding your own hand,
the momentary glimpse held still . . . by light,
by song, by the tenuous fall.