The gossips whisper their reproaches—
was it my fault I was too young for the war?

A muddy rain spoils every picnic‚
but the fields are thirsty‚ the farmers are poor.

My talent lies in kissing and pretending‚
and climbing barefoot up a trellis in the dark.

The neighbors are sharpening their pitchforks‚
though no one dares to tell us. In the park

I found her note pinned to a linden‚
her hair ribbon snagged in a pine

—All the world worries a lover
when all the world seems like a sign.

I crossed the weedy river
and floated along to her door.

She promised me a portrait of the roses:
Forever Pearl‚ and Malakoff’s Tour‚

Gloire de Dijon‚ and Marechal‚
the Souvenir of Malmaison;

I promised her nothing but trouble—
my être had no raison.

Her hens pecked the grain from my pockets;
her cat ate the butter-fat.

You needed a coupon for coffee‚ so I
brought her some cherries in my hat.

She stowed her watercolors in the rowboat—
I threw my books in the stern;

The oars dripped blue across our shoes
and we banked in a bed of ferns.

The crazy maid shattered the porch roof
while the merry-go-round never stopped.

Cannon pounded in the distance
(or was it thunder?)—every ear felt the pop.

As for us‚ we were always falling‚ deeper
than the tides and the moon‚

Deeper than the quarry and the well‚
and the shadows that hide at noon.

All this frenzy set the cocks a-crowing—
she let me pick the table and the chair‚

The olive-wood glowed to embers:
she let me let down her hair.

“I kissed his ear and his elbow‚” she sang‚
and the silky side of his thigh.

I kissed his knees‚ I kissed his lips
and then he waved goodbye.”

Our little spirit flitted‚
as fast and light as a moth.

“Shameful‚” they said‚ “unlawful
—a troth‚ in the end‚ is a troth.”

Love is a lapse and lovers liars‚
the father weeps‚ the mother sighs.

The wagons are circling
below the bedroom floor.

One laughs too much‚
the other cries.

The honeysuckle lost its honey
and the hens took their grain indoors.

Frost leveled the ferny banks
and ice grew thick on the oars.

I saw her face in the water.
I saw his face in the glass.

Some of us live in the present‚
and some of us live in the past‚

But it’s the bootblacks marching toward the future
who trample the summer grass.

The gossips whisper their reproaches—
was it my fault I was too young for the war?

A muddy rain spoils every picnic‚
but the fields are thirsty‚ the farmers are poor.

This poem is part of BR’s special package celebrating National Poetry Month.