The Walk

Leaving your house that final time,
   I didn’t drive straight home
but took a stroll around your town
   where we’d once loved to roam.

The trees were bare but the air was mild,
   birds chirping in the shrubs
while chickens, maundering here and there,
   combed earth for bugs and grubs.

Lake Whitney beamed, showing off its swans
   while Johnson’s Pond — an eye
that spied us when we’d stopped to kiss —
   seemed blue that you and I

weren’t ambling hand in hand. I longed
   to tell you, “Honey, guess
what I saw on my walk!” but left
   for my lonely new address.