In autumn in front of Linda’s two story apartment building
half hidden from traffic by a line of maple trees, large leaves
still paint the sidewalks in glossy shining 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 into the luminous glow
that seemed made just for us to walk through
I drive uphill these days past her apartment into the suburbs,
see leaf stains on the same broken cement squares like those
left on summer afternoons after a rain storm
Linda no longer walks beside me, gone when her mom suddenly
moved her to California leaving no forwarding address and only
the deepest color of yellow to remind me there once was a certain
brilliance on one of the last sidewalks of my youth, and today
on the canvas of my life there is none