Almost Forgotten Saturday
Long ago. Morning. In a maple tree
heavy with seed pods,
two slight boys
stand, crowing,
on budding branches
whirling prospective
saplings, like answers to prayers,
toward the earth.
I listen
to doves’ gray-throated cooing
in the daybreak’s damp.
I listen equally to the clank of distant tinkering
in backyards and tool sheds
on a Saturday almost forgotten.