At the REC Centre
I can’t go in, not yet, not yet.
Warm sun on skin leads me away
to find a place where I can sit.
I stop to watch some children play.
I watch them chase a soccer ball
all up and down the shining green.
Not long ago I watched my son
get up, fall down, get up again.
I watch them ‘til the sun sinks low.
Then I return the way I came.
Some trees new planted having plaques
commemorate a date, a name.
Azalea clusters scent the air;
the Hosta has already bloomed.
I think of Jasmine in your hair,
how autumn looks so good on you.
I linger at the garden bed
and think about my best cologne.
Don’t buy a tree when I am dead.
Let’s spend our money on the wine.