by Ethel Mortenson Davis
She feeds him sweets;
he, her, in the seat
ahead of us.
Yesterday, we were young,
but today,
as we climbed
in the Adirondacks,
we felt our age–
hand over hand,
root over root,
tripping over history
and boulders.
I waited for you,
you, for me,
our legs straining
like stressed trees,
trees that send out
a chemical substance
like aspirin
to buffer
their dying–
a train we too
will have to catch.
All four of us stopped
to photograph
droplets of water
on the red maple leaves
suspended like placid lakes
in the rain-soaked day.
But now,
the conductor calls out,
“Express train to
Manhattan,
Grand Central Station–
The Big Apple.”
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