you were wings then beating in me and we were young and everything was that one afternoon of sun on the skin

There was that fox, do you remember, rambling across the field

because we were nothing to it and it didn't fear us. Then the moon

and the rain and the moon and the rain. I've written all this before. 

Or meant to.. Or told the parts the censors left after their thick black

pens. The women here line up each morning with something like hope

on their faces but we must say no. And who am I but a little bit fat 

official? You would say differently who love me in spite. Do you have

enough wood? Are you keeping warm? I don't know when the world

will resume the shape it held up to us to believe in. Soon I fear we

won't remember what we want—some butter, hot water, a little wine.

Somewhere there is a story, in the long days, in these words, but only

the old can understand it, even as I write from middle age I can't see 

the denouement though I hope we will be warm then, and happy. Ah,

but I started to tell you, I found wild strawberries last night on my 

evening stroll and a certain afternoon returned to me as I bit that

sweetness. And somewhere an owl called out and you were wings

then beating in me and we were young and everything was that one

afternoon of sun on the skin and sweet fruit in the mouth, everything

surged in, even from this cold place, even when I think I may have

forgotten your voice.

 

[Cullen Bailey Burns, 'Letter after the Revolution', from Slip: Poems]