In those days of bees and indigo,
those days of blue delphinium,
I passed the peonies without a glance
to bend to the scent
of a row of roses.

Lili was a sparrow then,
an apprentice mimicking
the way I matched the peacock
we had watched,
backside thrust in air, strutting;

and equally my sniffing
just so
and equally her body bent
parallel to the ground;
those days of summer,

that have passed
like windows closing.
And so write them
in the book, the names, the mysteries,
we owe them at least that.