Wind at Nightfall

for Susan

The wind makes patterns in the shade.

Shadows race to be first

to find the underside of things.

There are so many tides: Your own light

pulsing through the nooks of memory

looking for something of significance—

perhaps a door hitherto unnoticed.

Behind it maybe you’ll find the reason

you grieve loses that haven’t happened yet.

And there are tides we’ve learned to ignore,

like time spent hanging clothes on the line,

time sweeping the floor.

In these there must be traces

of God’s plan, hints of redemption,

moments of grace we missed.

But time is not a place.

Words are not a place. Ergo:

time is a word that wanders through us.

Yesterday you said: “I am a diamond.” Then you listed

the facets: mother, grandmother, daughter,

wife, worker, gardener, launderette, sweeper.

And we laughed so hard because it was sad.

You had to say it yourself.

Nobody else would.

We fall into silence.

Silence.

Another word for time.

You open a book. Another self-help.

You turn a page to read

what’s on the other side.

A race with the shadows.

Published in San Pedro River Review Fall 2023