There is a park
not far from here
where the leaves turn early
and where
my daughter and I run
around orange and yellow
There was lumber
stacked, we saw,
for a project yet completed,
but we still looked and
imagined what could be
built
Even with a new structure
the place feels old, like ancestry.
There is nothing unknown,
save for the hidden kindred trees
in a large outlining circle
of perfect familial love
Social gatherings
from the small community
occurred, I’m sure,
in the quietness of the grove
in kinship summer where
voices echoed in laughter.
While in winter it lies still
with dormant warmth
weighted by the snow
and frozen by the breeze;
a beautiful lineage
of past yet to repeat.
But in the fall,
we run and chase
and I scoop her up
in my arms
amongst the leaves
as the wind caresses family.
