To My Daughter in a Red Coat

Late October. It is afternoon. My daughter and I walk through the leaf-strewn Corridors of the park In the light and the dark Of the elms' thin arches. Around us brown leaves fall and spread. Small winds stir the minor dead. Dust powders the air. Those shrivelled women stare. At us from their cold benches. Child, your mittens tug your sleeves. They lick your drumming feet, the leaves. You come so fast, so fast. You violate the past, My daughter, as your coat dances.