Double fluke

I'm doubling (ha ha) back to February Poetry Adventure Day 6. Prompt: Evergreen (courtesy of "Petra Glyphs").

When I was twenty-two, I moved
to the Evergreen State, where the green
confused my eyes, mixed so much with the gray
and either way I was so homesick.

One day, trudging down the Ave
despondent, wishing for a friend
the way people wish for water
I saw a man walking towards me.

He had been a sapling when I saw him last
a neighbor frenemy, playing Laser Tag
running among the trees and high weeds.
Middle school, high school, not really friends
but bound by a small town.

He was no longer a sapling but a tree
and four years and 832 miles later
we were walking down the same street
meeting again. I was so happy 
for even five minutes of being known.

Sixteen or so years later, walking in a parking lot
wearing glasses now, worn down by babies
hair piled in perpetual bun, homeowner even
pushing a cart full of children, I heard someone 

say my name, and looked up to see a stranger
walking toward me. The same boy, then young man
now man settled deep his thirties, no longer sapling
nor young tree, but trunk barked over with limbs 
severed and re-grown, branches stretching
with children of his own. 

In another twenty years, I may meet him once more
walking past each other in Wallingford, maybe
holding the hands of grandchildren, me not recognizing him
him not recognizing me, old neighbors, old frenemies
old classmates, older now than we’ve ever been
passing once again.