The house with people just like every year,
And walked alone beyond the backyard fence
To watch the sycamore release its leaves.
What grief he felt, afraid to show his guests,
I think I know. The night had passed like all
The others, full of talk and food. We told
Him, “Happy Birthday! How’s it feel to leave
Another year behind?” He laughed, then shrugged
And waved his hand. This did enough to please
Our questioning, distracted as we were
By cake and things we’d hoped the night would hide
From us till morning came. But then I caught
Him take his leave; he did not see me step
Out too, and watch where now he stood before
The tree. Its branches sloughed with quiet grace
By cake and things we’d hoped the night would hide
From us till morning came. But then I caught
Him take his leave; he did not see me step
Out too, and watch where now he stood before
The tree. Its branches sloughed with quiet grace
Their golden leaves, and so they fell. At last
Relieved of earthly glory’s mortal weight,
Those branches seemed to reach for what they would
Receive in spring: another crown. Perhaps
He had this on his mind when, stretching out
His arms like branches bearing leaves, he prayed
The wind would slough them too.
--Lauro P., Adult
Those branches seemed to reach for what they would
Receive in spring: another crown. Perhaps
He had this on his mind when, stretching out
His arms like branches bearing leaves, he prayed
The wind would slough them too.
--Lauro P., Adult