In Spring, with Storms to the West

I thought I heard the wind inside your voice,

A breeze as soft as branches under rain.

Perhaps it was the memory of a choice

That we made once, and then we made again.

In any case, the morning’s yet to come

With crises which we can’t imagine now.

With luck, at least a few will be the same

As yesterday’s, and we’ll remember how

We saved the world a dinner at a time,

A glass of wine, a dance, a simple word.

Let’s pull our memories tighter, close to home,

And listen for that wind I thought I heard.