The tree between our houses

Is the poem I try to write,

With our children under

Its fountain flight.

Tree for its green and lofting,

Children scuffing ground,

Remake the annual pattern,

And the summery sound

Of time as it goes over

Our neighboring needful heads.

My wording thinks of children

Growing in their beds,

And the tree that roots older

Then you do, or do I,

And all our lives' weather

Wearing by.

Forgive we and forget me

For too many poems made

Out of too much trouble,

And not health but head.

The leaves and voices tangled

In this quiet local air

Are poem speaking,

And always there.