They did not come to see the flower garden.
Winter's last squall blew at their heels.
They had black faces,
and eyes as yellow as an elk bone.
I was writing a poem--
but wolves came
and I curled myself around the April moon.
I'm sorry if you've come
and not found me here.
I'm sorry there is nothing left but a little blood-
on the page,
but if the moon rises,
we'll talk, just as if summer was our favorite season after all;
and should the wolves come for you,
we can still be together, though it won't be the same,
in the fall.