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.