Those were the years of lamplight falling on early snow, the blue shadows of trees forming an arc by the platform where you waited for the last train, and the man and his daytime harmonica slept under the ticket counter, his breath curling under a thin coat collar. Those were the years you walked with grocery bags in each hand when you missed the bus, clicking each knee against the cold. The corridor stretched, and suddenly a profusion of crepe myrtles; unstoppable blossoming of cherry trees, such beauty a currency they never minded losing. When the moon asked to bind your ring finger with silver, it did not drain the seas of their poison. It didn't stop the horse from working free of its reins, the ox from rooting itself in the mud before it bent to the yoke again. Here is a leaf for each season: you could give them the names of your daughters, before each slipped quietly into a book.