A slack line slaps a flagpole as the wind gusts through the park.

The band shell stands abandoned, but for dogs that sniff and bark.

I’d take my lucky penny, drop it gladly in the well

That all would be as music for my Lejna Tasha Belle.

The weedy footpath narrows, withered tangles intertwine

The partly broken trellis which the drunken rose once climbed.

I’d rake this moon-dark garden, work till Nature cast Her spell,

That all would be as flowers for my Lejna Tasha Belle.

I’ll not see end to end from in the middle

Until life’s brilliant necklace comes unstrung.

Where once I’d recollect, “When you were little…”

I now look back and sigh, “When I was young…”

I rustle through the clutter of November’s dry debris

And contemplate the lonely leaf-choked fountain then I see

The fallen-in gazebo where the carved initials tell

That all was once as springtime for my Lejna Tasha Belle.