the crabapple trees
are on fire
with bristling flames
of rich orange
and deep red.
in stately ranks they’ve lined these placid streets
for thirty autumns,
growing, inch by inch
along with
thirty years of children
clambering among their branches,
their firm tart fruit,
used as missiles
in a generation
of juvenile wars.
today i stalk these streets
as a stranger;
wary eyes
peer through parted curtains
along my path.
each window a distorting mirror;
my reflection
shows a child
rolling through heaps of fallen flame.
the din of childish laughter
reverberates across thirty autumns;
the children of this season
stare in wonder
at the long-haired stranger;
the child
of twenty autumns ago
lived in a world of peace & comfort.
these suburban hills
ripple into the distance
cloaked
in a cascade of shimmering
green/gold/rust;
their timeless bulk
once surveyed
the soft pure world
of the boy
i see in windows;
today, they stand as silent sentinels,
keeping a dark stranger
under leery surveillance.
my walk ends
at a strong oak door
bedecked
with a holiday adornment:
a horn of plenty.
and as I softly tap for entry
i realize
this is not my home.
