For Simón

How many kind eyes
look out at the world?

How much laughter
do we hear?

How much courtesy
graces the name "humanity"?

Today, we are one less.

And outside my window,
where I used to see his truck,
the great arms of the loquat tree
have folded, and broken.

Half of that tree lies silent now on the ground.

It could no longer sustain
its burden of sorrow.