Remember how unimportantthey seemed, growing looselyin the open fields we crossedon the way to school. Wewould carve wooden swordsand slash at the luscious trunksuntil the white milk startedand then flowed. Then we'dgo on to the long dayafter day of the History of Historyor the tables of numbers and orderas the clock slowly paidout the moments. The windowswent dark first with rainand then snow, and then the days,then the years ran together and notone mattered more thananother, and not one mattered.Two days ago I walkedthe empty woods, bent over,crunching through oak leaves,asking myself questionswithout answers. From somewherea froth of seeds drifted by touchedwith gold in the last lightof a lost day, going withthe wind as they always did.
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