Among these hills, and many Aprils,
Growing up, and old, and out,
And over past the edge of what we knew;
And I, the parvenu,
And arrogant, beyond all cause or doubt.

Though hands have changed through many Aprils,
Warming skin is warming skin,
And life’s not just a series filled with days,
And cloudy matinees,
Out over past the edge of what has been:
Perhaps our only sin,
Is many Aprils spent not knowing
Just which way the winds of Spring
Were blowing