Tuesday, September 7, 2010


He and she met me and you
  when you and I were we.
I danced with you, and he with her,
  beneath the branching tree.
We four sat speaking, two and two,
  until, “Pardon,” said she,
“I have to go, and come again.”
  and so we now were three.
Said he to you, “Will you with me?”
  when dancing had begun.
Said you to him, “I thank you—please.”
  and I was only one.
When you and he, then she as well,
  made us all four again,
“Farewell, you two,” said they to us.
  “Adieu,” said we to them.
Now years have passed, and you and I
  no longer call us we,
for he who dances ’neath the tree
  with you is him, not me.
And she who went away that night,
  and came again to him
has come and gone away, the way
  that others have since then.
And so I think of twos and fours
  and threes and ones and trust
That someday I will find her who
  will help me make an us.

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