We didn’t yet know ourselves,
How could we have known each other
At that young age with empty minds
And no reason to look beyond?

The world we knew was all we had,
A bright and narrow valley,
Where change was but a fiction
And the seasons never turned.

Or, never had that we yet knew
And so was bold our faith,
Our patience fixed on the hands of clocks
That swung the same slow day.

To run and meet in that shaded street
Was the sum of my ambition,
To fill quick hours with stories and flowers
Before the night could come,

And then away to forget our own threads
And write them anew tomorrow,
Toward dinner plates and familiar shapes
That kept this sky aloft—

The sky of that unchanging day
When we were unmade forms,
Tied close in our simplicity,
Without wonder that else should come.