Some days I walk down the street
where we lived and the fat man 
who stole  tomatoes
sits under the same old sycamore 
tapping out his angry rhythms 
on the knotted roots.  And though
the children are no longer ours, 
the oaks are no less generous 
to the sidewalks with their shade.  
Overhead, sweet air still arrives 
through many simple branches—
some reaching skyward for joy,
others downcast for a reason.  
We were like good trees
the years we lived on this street.  
We were so green.  Fresh as leaves.
And the days whispered through us.