They come on the first Sunday of
October, to converse with the sun,
Which warms the blades of grass and shards
Of towering glass and even the hardest urban hearts
For what could be the last time until
The seasons change again.
Laughter has no language here,
And the city’s careless clocks do not tick
As couples walk backwards, hand in hand,
Swallowing with fond smiles the familiar skyline,
Passing by old friends who are sprawled
Out on their backs, recounting the past,
Treasuring happy rays until their last.