There is a place where the wind collects
what we cannot carry—
it scrapes against the hollow bones of trees,
pressing between the willows,
pulling whispers from the earth.
It moves through me, too.
At first, only lightly,
lifting the edges of things I thought were mine—
the weight of names, the echo of hands
once warm, now still.
The wind lingers in the rooms I leave behind,
tugging at empty sheets,
threading through the spaces where voices fade.
It knows the weight of last breaths,
the hush of waiting,
the quiet surrender of a closing door.
Over time, the wind learns me.
It knows where the cracks are.
It slips between them,
taking what it pleases—
the softness of my voice,
the ease of my step.
I try to hold what’s left,
but the wind is patient.
It peels me back, season by season,
like bark surrendering to the tide.
One day, I wonder if I will know myself
when I stand in still air.
If, when the wind finally rests,
I will have anything left to call my own.
Or if I, too,
will be carried away.
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