As the ice breaks on the pond 
on a warm February Sunday,
the air delivering
floral hints of the future,

you and I stand and wait
for the car to arrive
that will take you away
to start your new life,

even if you do find a way back
for a visit, driven by nostalgia,
or a hope, it won’t be the same, 
the cabin weathered by harsh dust 

the grand maple gone.
I’ll have changed, too, 
when you spot me
walking up the steep hill

to the road, so slow 
and old by then 
you’re sure to mistake me 
for somebody else.