as we walk arm in arm

it's still

there, the lake, the woods,

the full trees

along

poets walk

in central park, the green

benches with

bronzed memories

of those

who came before us,

now gone.

the horse pulled

carriages.

i prefer winter though,

with snow

on the ground,

the skaters

on the pond.

roasted chestnuts 

in the cold air

as we walk, arm in arm.