Springtime
The days are longer and the leaves
are darker green.
“Spring returns each year,” the fado singer tells us,
“but innocence does not.”
My shadow leads me down the street
under the flowering trees.
Inside my head
my life’s cascading past
like people exiting a stadium
but that’s OK. You’re walking next to me.
Those Two
He’s let his hair go white
and she’s dyed hers jet black.
He’s let time run its course.
She’s stopped it in its tracks.
I watch them cross the street
with short, considered steps
holding each other’s hand
and it occurs to me
as time runs down for them
that they don’t notice it.
They like the way they are.
Change doesn’t change things much.