Old Men

Old men can’t help themselves,

it’s the nature of the beast,

the looking back,

the wondering about change.

The elm trees of Elm Avenue

have long departed,

but what of the pines and firs,

the birches that replaced them?

Have they grown tall

like their predecessors,

creating a canopy,

with just enough space for

the moon to peek through?

How about the lake?

is it still a playground without toys,

loved by local girls and boys?

No matter the age,

one can’t forget the days,

the unfettered joys,

shared with friends

that time did take.

Surely the lilacs still bloom in spring,

great rows of them,

hedges against the road,

flowers picked a few at a time,

nested in canning jars on kitchen tables.

Are there still farms nearby,

unsanitary, with cow smell

wafting over the miles?

Is the sky still cloudy in summer,

white puffs portending the arrival

of the thunderheads to come,

rolling in from the plains?

Do children still see it like a book,

stories ever changing,

always rearranging,

they, the authors, arguing

about the plots – is it a rabbit or mouse?

No! Can’t you see the kangaroo?

And the night,

its sights and sounds?

Still filled with crickets, owls and fireflies?

Children squealing?

Mothers calling?

One can hope.

One can hope.