Paving stones slip past. Sandaled feet, leathery sounds,
the crunch of leaves underfoot.
I look across the yard and see across the years and miles.
There’s Pop, his quilted jacket zippered up, rake in hand,
coaxing leaves into the flame.
I wait upon the smoke, the friendly smell of their burning.
And Pop, unshaved, lighting his stubby cigarette for the
umpteenth time.
Leaves and paving stones slip past, as does this moment’s
recollection of homey, short lived contentment, that with all
the years and miles, still brings half a smile.