It can be enough actually, this:
Just the angle of the day and you doing your best
To cup a few handfuls of what it was like
No different than wildflowers pressed in a book.
Like the one in Scotland that late November
When the tower clock stopped and all we could do
Was gaze on its face, its slender still hands
And wonder what all of it meant, had we too stopped
Did we have the strength to keep our arms like that
And hold our pose right here in the rain?