Wind out of nowhere dragged the blue trees,

Blue fields.

Slammed doors; you fled from room

To room laughing, shutting windows

Laughing; but before you came to our room,

The bed was soaked, the screen spraying.

Then–you stole upon the veranda bench,

(That veranda bench!)

You held the door, I dashed back in a flash,

Wet to the skin; you pushing the brutal door.

We cried aloud from room to room.

Kissed, and before we knew, it went

With a last spattering hail.

The fields were green again, bitter,

The ineffectual calm sun setting, as before,

Water ran in the ditch, ditches in corn-rows,

Then the fireflies, do you remember….

Remember the fireflies? Your eyes

Grew dark, calm,

To the pricking fireflies everywhere

Out of the blind of night, out of the bush

The dark gardens, the trembling oatsfield….

We sat, listening to the little words,

And saying a few remembered.

Do you remember?

And it is to remember

That you are loaned a little while

To quickness, softness, and a smile

The future will dismember

Is it in the afternoon

Mirage of my parched throat

That you sat singing in a boat,

That dusk is gliding soon

In wide grey eyes as though

No pain were on the green,

Mist on the river never seen

And silent-floating we might go…

As to the moonrise you could smile

(Oh now, is that a debt,

Does memory wisely promise yet?)

And aches be fused a little while.