This afternoon was the color of water falling through sunlight;
The trees glittered with the tumbling of leaves;
The sidewalks shone like alleys of dropped maple leaves
And the houses ran along them laughing out of square, open windows

Under a tree in the park
Two little boys, lying flat on their faces
Were carefully gathering red berries
To put in a pasteboard box

Some day there will be no war
Then I shall take out this afternoon
And turn it in my fingers
And remark the sweet taste of it upon my palate
And note the crisp variety of its flights of leaves

Today I can only gather it
And put it into my lunch-box
For I have time for nothing
But the endeavour to balance myself
Upon a broken world