The soft air coming through the Window reminds me that Somewhere there are fields and Flowers, mountains, trees, there are April snows on Highland peaks, out there Beyond my city reach - a Memory touch that pains as I am Left here to nurture All that remains of my past. I must outlast the loss, Live on minus many things. How Soft airs can cut and sting, How they can hold one Fast in their fragrant arms, make One remember the past, the hurt, Make one yield.next poem