His Voice Still Sings in My Memory’s Ear

What spurred me on was a voice in my head:
“Get outside. Do something,” rather harshly, I thought.
But yes. Go outside. Clean the spot in the corner.
Where Jupiter’s Beard hangs over the curb.

I pulled the last of the weeds and roses.
The sun shot beams between the clouds and hills,
Darkening them even as the colors danced
In the lifting breeze of evening running by.

And on that breeze I heard, clear as birdsong,
That sweet, gentle voice from behind me.
“My sweetie pie,” it softly sang from the door
Where he used to exercise after his day’s sleep.

“My sweetie pie!” I wanted to sing back, brightly.
I smiled, thinking how lovely it is to hear,
Even if only in my memory’s ear, that voice,
Which always spoke to me more sweetly than my own.