Wind at Nightfall

for Susan

The wind makes patterns in the shade—

shadows racing to be first

to find the underside of things.

There are too many tides: Your own light

pulsing through the nooks of memory

probing for significance—

perhaps a door hitherto unnoticed

behind which you’ll find the reason

you grieve loses that haven’t happened yet

or those minutes you’ve chosen to forget:

time spent hanging clothes on the line,

time sweeping the floor.

In these maybe there are hints

of redemption, moments of grace

you missed.

But time is not place,

words are not place.

Time is a word that wanders through us.

Yesterday you said: “I am a diamond,”

then listed the facets: mother, grandmother, daughter,

wife, worker, gardener, launderette, sweeper.

We laughed 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