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The flies and itching heat are gone at last.
Lovely autumn, just a walk from my door
Golden and energetic, I adore
You here with me steadfast as the promise
Of middle age. Birds rustle in the leaves.
Or are they footsteps coming from behind?
No, it’s only a squirrel I turn to find
Close to the bench as unafraid of me
By the East River in East River Park
Which was built from the rubble of London
Bombed, brought back, ballast in the emptied hulls
Of battleships returning to New York
In World War II. Who really knows what was?
Brown and yellow, red they fall, spring’s green buds.
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