For the paths once walked on Lincoln Street,
and the trails that linger at 173,
where memory bends beneath the trees,
and time remembers what the heart still sees.
_________________________
I walked again where lilacs lean,
their branches heavy, soft, and green.
The sidewalk cracked, the roots had grown,
through all the years the house has known.
The fence still tilts the way it did,
where once we dared and once we hid,
the gate that caught, the post that swayed,
still keeping secrets time has made.
Forsythia spilled across the trail,
its yellow flames grown thin and frail.
The air still held that dusty heat
where barefoot boys and summers meet.
We raced through yards and over stone,
each backyard kingdom half our own.
No fear, no map, just scraped-up skin,
and laughter loud enough for sin.
Now grown, I walk that block again -
the gardens trimmed, the houses thin.
New names on mailboxes, porches gone,
but lilacs lean, still holding on.
Their scent comes back - a door swung wide
on all that lived, and never died.
And in that hush of afternoon,
the years fell still… too late, too soon.
Not grand, not changed, not marked by fame,
just weather, roots, and memory’s claim.
The earth keeps faith, as people can’t -
it grows around what hearts still plant.
I touched the fence, the splintered seam,
and felt the trail beneath the dream -
a path not lost, just grown unseen,
where time still bends,
and lilacs lean.
GBS
2022
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