Years ago I watched your great-grandparents
leap from tree branch to tree branch
when we moved into our home.
As our children were born,
so were there children.
As we cooked dinner
and read books on the porch
they fought, and scavenged for food,
and mated above our heads.
Our children were still toddlers
as your grandparents were
reaching their prime.
Our paths rarely crossed
except maybe when we hung a bird feeder
or I swerved to miss your parents
in my car.
I often forgot you were there at all.
Tonight, as I watch you jump
among the trees your ancestors claimed,
I remember how things seemed back then.
Before the fence that changed the feel of the yard.
Before the swing set or the bird bath.
Back when the tree were first ours,
although they are really yours,
and always will be.
The dewdrop glistens
As it desperately clings
From the tilted cap
Colored in brilliant red
And dotted in white
That sits upon
One of a cluster
Of delicate toadstools
Out of the loaf of moldy bread
The compost heap.