Pasadena

          It is the streets I 
          remember most. Cool,
          shady, tree lined by
          gnarled oaks. Root ruptured
          sidewalks were swept in
          the afternoon. Come 
          Autumn, the spikey 
          leaves, ripe acorns were
          piled along street
          gutters and crushed by
          passing cars. I remember
          the white houses with
          long porches, green lawns
          with stout hedges and
          the front doors made of
          hard oak I was never
          allowed to walk through.

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