Promise

When I’m gone
the wind will still blow
through these trees,
and somewhere
high above the clouds
the sun will always shine.
Things will remain
much the same:
birds will sing
and words will rhyme.
In summer, the earth
will be too hot,
and when leaves cover
the walk in fall,
your winter coat
will still hang
next to mine.
And if, in spring,
you think of me,
I won’t be
hard to find.