Remember the days of our first happiness,
How strong we were, how dazed by passion,
Lying all day, then all night in the narrow bed,
Sleeping there, eating there too: it was summer,
It seemed everything had ripened
At once. And so hot we lay completely uncovered.
Sometimes the wind rose; a willow brushed the window.
But we were lost in a way, didn’t you feel that?
The bed was like a raft; I felt us drifting
Far from our natures, toward a place where we’d discover nothing.
First the sun, then the moon, in fragments,
Stone through the willow.
Things anyone could see.
Then the circles closed. Slowly the nights grew cool;
The pendant leaves of the willow
Yellowed and fell. And in each of us began
A deep isolation, though we never spoke of this,
Of the absence of regret.
We were artists again, my husband.
We could resume the journey.