after Stanley Plumly

I would give it back to you, perhaps in a season,
say autumn, I would give you back leaves, 
ochre, crimson, fire orange of the sprawling maple
across the street from your house, that cherished sight
every October, the month of your birth, mid-way through
the season Mother, months of irrepressible beauty and change
deepening, I would give you back more autumns,
free from back pain and money worries, still breathing,
no lesions in your lungs, I would give you back my presence
nourished beside you, both of us at your window, rapt,
witness to the daily gift of that October tree.