At Night, When the Wind is Blowing
At night, when the wind is blowing
And the Chestnut’s new leaves are rustling
I think of the first time I climbed the hill
to this house and met you on the steps.
How the spirit of the place made room for me and
invited me to become part of its story.
I remember happy and conflicted days
of everything new and everything
breaking apart. Of wrenching grief and
the starry-eyed hope of starting over.
And I have started over with you.
Who were the first people to walk over
this ground and build their homes here?
To plant fields and grow food for themselves?
Did they feel the land welcome them too?
Did they walk down this road,
when it became a road, hand in hand
in the moonlight, whispering promises?
Did they kiss under the stars and imagine
a life where every day burned bright
like a summer afternoon because they had
found their hearts hidden in each other,
and their home in this place?
The land beneath my feet and the sky over my head
have moved on since that day,
unconcerned through the seasons
summer, fall, winter, spring.
How I have changed and how I have remained myself,
how we have grown together and have begun to live out
the truth about us–that we belong to one another,
that Fate put us in each other’s paths.
I think about this and other things,
at night, when the wind is blowing.
Poem by Kim Pollack/©2019 All Rights Reserved