I Walked the Streets of Ancient Oak

I walked the streets of ancient oak.

I walked the streets of maple.

The baby peered up at branches

from his stroller, tucked in

a blanket heap. I passed a house

of stone and ivy, a house of

chalky brick. Daylight

pressurized the leaded windows,

November’s chipped gray teeth.

In the season between seasons,

one house was draped with silvery

wraiths, the next with evergreen.

I walked the streets of flameless

candles. Against autumn’s

crisp and sodden pages,

they cast their imitative glow.

Some houses reminded me of inns

and so I missed the pantomime

of travel and I missed the pillowy

ignorance of dreams, European

summers and my husband

next to me. The baby fell asleep.

I walked the streets of pine trees.

A white squirrel flickered

in the hedges, a wayward twirl of

snow. Some might consider this

a blessing. I guess I just don’t know.