I went and walked where I had gone
many times before, to round the park's perimeter
and get some thinking done. Without thinking
where it led, I took the path along the stream
and came to stand between two young, denuded trees.
The trees stood for two people, brother and sister,
who both had died before they completed
their second year. Stella to the left,
Noah to the right, the stream behind me,
babbling its ceaseless baby talk, my walk
came abruptly to a halt. The stream
is ceaseless, the dream is endless, our thoughts
deceive us, our friends defend us, our hearts
depend on the ceaseless belief, the season
of grief is upon us, and friends
have no say in the way this messiness ends.
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