the rivers of it, abridged

New York City skyline at night


Fall 2007



Marc Alan Di Martino

Time Traveler

You grew and you grew until you stopped growing
And there they planted a tree to mark your height;
Existence was measured in feet and inches,
Infancy meted out with a yardstick.
When you were tall enough, you walked away forever,
Returning occasionally for holidays or a wedding
But soon not even those. You lost track of the tree
Standing alone in the yard, an orchard of one.
Then everyone else walked away, too. House and garden
Belong to others now. The cemetery
Is still at the end of the road, beyond the curve
(the dead don’t walk away so easily)
Near the communal gardens, cramped and overgrown.
Occasionally, you still pass by. Between the pines
Your father planted, you spy on other lives
Unfolding as yours once did. Smiling, you wave.
They wave back, welcoming you into their home.

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