top of page

Crying in the Wind

We sit on the ground this spring morning
under the trees, inside ourselves
looking back on past sadnesses,
”listen to the voices”, says the therapist…

Next to me sits the quiet one
she has sat there for two days now
not saying a word,
wrapping and unwrapping her scarf
I hear many voices
but she only hears a lost voice
crying in the wind

I hear
the rising monotones of the Muazzin
calling the faithful to prayer
from the minaret on the hill,
each phrase ending on a well defined
question, slicing into the wind,
but her eye clouds over
with a thin sad film
she only hears a lost voice
crying in the wind


I hear
a two syllabled note
of the first wood thrush balancing
like a semiquaver in the
chilly morning air
hello it sings, hello,
a new day begins, hello
but she leans back on her
sleeping bag, sees only a mound
of earth, hears only her lost voice
crying in the wind

The day winds on
spring music fills the air
we walk in the woods
I hear the streams rushing by
full of fish
but she’s silent, then she crouches
she’s digging now in the wormy soil
fingernails brown with concentrated effort
she pulls out stubborn pebbles, lumps of clay
until her hand locks on to a hidden root
fingers curl around it and leaning back
with effort, pulls and tugs until
with a sudden tendrilly lurch, it
tears free with a reluctant protracted rip

and tenderly she removes the root
tears flowing down her cheeks, sobs
bursting from her like a flock of hidden
fowl in the thicket taking to the air
with a great cawing cry

gently she places the stones on
the mound, we move away
caught up in the revelation of the moment
we look down on her, swimming in memories
crying softer now for a dead
child, gone these thirty months
crying in the wind
”listen to the voices”, says the therapist…
”what do you hear?”
”My baby, my baby”
and one of the women shouts
”you can have another,
have another one!”
and she walks into the center of the stream
washes her arms, her dress, her hair
glowing and dripping now she emerges
smiling, smoothing her hair
she looks upwards to the trees,
to the sky, to the birds,
crying in the wind

To Go Back To
Hit your browser's

© Johnmichael Simon



bottom of page