The Last Cold Night of Spring

This may be the last cold night of spring, 
Wreathed as the world is now, in green, before the summer heat 
And seasons and years will pass before October 
Crowns again our feet with golden leaves

This street is the same in any season, always, and 
I wonder if the cars can see me sitting on the steps, 
The light of my pipe a beacon on the night
Coming alive as with longing eyes
As I breathe, beneath quiet skies

They pass the same as they ever have, the teenagers and adults, 
They drive at different speeds, though
And I'm old enough now to have played both roles
I’m looking more down and back than I ever have 

The lives do not change, just the roles they play,
Just the ages and the players, re-arranged upon the stage
The scene always the same,
In every day and age

Nor has the singular beauty of the night faded from this place:
The rising light of the headlamps as they crest the hill
Fills the forest as with fire, for just a moment, until
Cresting, the light holds still at the top, and then it drops
As they come down, at first without a sound, and then 
The leaves and the branches shake, as if awakened by a wave
As the cars pass on
To lives which must play out the familiar pattern
Day by day 

I sit here in the smoke of dirt and earth, waiting
Letting my soul be in no hurry, so that it, too, awakens

And I see, already, the autumn before me
Here in this last cold snap before the summer
As school lets out
As young children shout with joy
As the world crests over us, whatever our moment’s wisdom
Whatever knowing our age can hold

While this street stays the same
And the world crests like light 
Like all the sun's light, rising and falling on the night