in early may, he often finds himself
wandering toward central park
mid-morning, when all the joggers are out.

there is a tree
just far enough from the path
to be safe from prying eyes.
and he always ends up there,
nestled among the squirrels
and fallen branches.

and each year he traces the bark
of one of the arching roots
until he finds it: the carving.

fifty years ago, and faded, now.
if he didn't know where it was,
he'd never see it again.

j.f. & l.y.

he loved her with all his heart,
until at nineteen years old,
she loved him too hard
and broke into pieces.

.

.

.

(he buried her when he was only twenty,
but he loved her until he died.)