On The Moon We Wore Feathers In

I Was Pretending That I Did Not Speak Their Language; On The Moon We Spoke A Soft, Liquid Tongue, And Sang In The Starlight, Looking Down On The Dead Dried World.

She Had Taken To Wondering Lately, During These Swift-counted Years, What Had Been Done With All Those Wasted Summer Days; How Could She Have Spent Them So Wantonly? I Am Foolish, She Told Herself Early Every Summer, I Am Very Foolish; I Am Grown Up Now And Know The Values Of Things. Nothing Is Ever Really Wasted, She Believed Sensibly, Even One's Childhood, And Then Each Year, One Summer Morning, The Warm Wind Would Come Down The City Street Where She Walked And She Would Be Touched With The Little Cold Thought: I Have Let More Time Go By.

February, When The Days Of Winter Seem Endless And No Amount Of Wistful Recollecting Can Bring Back Any Air Of Summer.

For Plain And Fancy Worrying, Give Me A New Mother Every Time.

I Remember That I Stood On The Library Steps Holding My Books And Looking For A Minute At The Soft Hinted Green In The Branches Against The Sky And Wishing, As I Always Did, That I Could Walk Home Across The Sky Instead Of Through The Village.