In Garland Park

On a warm day in June
prowling a narrow trail
up a gorge profuse with ferns,
fairy lanterns and paint brush,
I hold out the promise
of a tree house destination.

At a meager waterfall we pause,
seize great gulps of air spiced
with sage and blooming buckeye.
Tiny buds of pearly everlasting
on wobbly stems peek from
masses of rattlesnake grass.

We trek on up the dusty path,
arrive out of breath
at the open meadow,
expect the pleasure of refuge
offered by the sprawling white oak
waiting at the edge of the mesa.

Someone decided
the tree house wasn't safe,
demolished its shady platform.
Rambling empty limbs take pity
on my discontent.

Broken branches and seedy scars
speak of longevity,
flawed expectations,
tree top picnics in July.
Soon, in the rustle of leaves
I hear the voices of children
playing in the shadowed canopy.

Everything changes.
Even disappointment.