Nothing between this day and days you knew.
Nothing of intervening years for you
To see if you were here to see. Nothing
Of time. The petals of the apple blossoms
Drown in the deep grass as they always drown
In grass in May. Greenness overruns
The air, leaving room only for birds
To fly and birds to sing and wind and sun
And you riding a small boy on your shoulders
Pausing to see and point a bird, the same bird.
Nothing of years, of time. Nothing of change
Except in us. We are older now.
Too many days (you smile and understand?)
Too many days like this have made us old.
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