We went through days . . .

We went through days as if we went through wind-blown gardens.
Blossomed and ripened and practiced at playing with life and with death.
Dark cloud and nerve and fantasy—each of them in our words.
And among the stubborn trees in summer-rustling gardens
we branched out into our one and only tree.

And evenings spread themselves with a heavy darkening blue,
with painful desires of winds and falling stars,
with straying caressing glow over twitchy grass and leaf,
as we weaved ourselves in wind, soaked up in that night-blue,
and were like joyful animals and like crafty and frisky gods.

Anna Margolin