I try happiness again
beneath the moss of time.
My steps along quilted walks surprise
in former lightness
the weighted one I am.
Here, I say, only yesterday—
how the mantle parts—
cherry trees spent color restlessly,
and expectations briefly iridescent rose
for an early sun.
Even what ran after gathers less in,

so spacious the reverie,
so green this memory.
I move to recollection
carried by the wine of our young years.
Follies graceful grow—
stripped of first noise, brought smooth—
night flow like a chaste stream.

If ever you write, admit the wind but
say you’ve saved one old tune. Then,
sweet music, see me through.

- Richard Baldasty