In autumn in front of Linda’s two story apartment building

half hidden from traffic by a line of trees,

leaves paint the sidewalk in glossy yellow shapes

that winter wears dull but cannot erase.

When Linda lived there, the shadows of the trees turned

the shade to navy blue, and even with cars streaking past,

Linda and I on our way home from the playground

stopped without words to look down the bright yellow path.

I drive uphill past those trees into the suburbs,

see leaf stains on cement squares,

same as then except Linda moved long ago

with her Mom and Dad to an unknown town in California.