Circles on the Mountain

March Wind

The wind brings a pang of you,

a memory sharp as the smell of sage.

I know where you are,

the dark hills, the unreachable stars,

the stony ground.

The wind rises, the house shakes,

we stack the stove with wood,

to keep the loneliness away.

But my love knows you live,

breathing quietly in the dead silence,

your heart fluttering a tiny, steady flame

in the vast backwardness of time.

If I hold you closer than my tears,

if I pray to the cold wind,

I will go there,

to warm my hands in your fire.

-- Steven Foster

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