POEM Comments

It's the simplest things that I hear in the wind's
intervals, when the simple beating of the rain
on the windows breaks the silence of night, and its rhythm
overwhelms that of words. Sometimes, it is a
tired voice, that tirelessly repeats
what the night teaches those who live it; other
times, it runs, hurriedly, mowing down meanings
and phrases as though it wanted to reach the end, more
quickly than the dawn. We're talking about simple things,
like the sand which is scooped up, and runs
through your fingers while your eyes search
for a clear line on the horizon; or things
that we suddenly remember, when
the sun emerges from a brief tear in the clouds.
These are the things that happen, when the wind
remains; and it is these we try to recall, as though
we had heard them, and the noise of the rain
on the windowpanes had not snuffed out their voice.
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