It was the very end of summer.
We three were sitting on the floor
in your apartment near the park
in the part of town with tall trees,
after she and I had played tennis
beneath the sycamores and above
the creek by the old stone bridge,
listening to Crosby, Stills and Nash.
I did not know what to say,
how, even in my mind, to begin.
We were both with the one we loved.
You loved her all her life, and I
loved her just as she was that day
when we ran to the car in the rain.