The Hush Of That Old Wind Poem by RIC BASTASA

once a year i climb the mountain with you.
the steps have changed and we know it.
our words too. our way of choosing silence
as we cross one river to another as we shift from
one cliff to another as we rest on valleys and take
turns at gripping with heavy breaths to recoup what
we lost.

my hands are busy and i have nothing to hold much.
so i left you busy too with your own ways of survival.

this year we reach the top again and looking at the plains
and the tiny houses and the winding roads we are stilled
like a tree without a sea breeze at noon.

we sit on two stones about an arm apart. we do not look at
each other now but i do not worry for i know that you are looking
at the very same view that i am making myself so
preoccupied.

for you were once a child too who played with pebbles
who miss the sand on the beach, the foam of the sea,
the shade of the coconut tree, the taste of its water,
the hush of that old wind, the chimes of silver by the window
of the house.