Thayer Watkins
Silicon Valley

Three for Storm

I miss you, Friend.
And the missing of you
Collects and settles upon my heart
Like dust blown in by the west wind.


Where once burned a torch
Of the acetylene sort
Only a plaque of black
Hangs in my heart.


Breeze in the branches,
Breeze in the leaves.
Where is the little Breeze
Who blessed our lives?
She lives in our memories,
Molded into our souls.


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