When I left Boca Grande,
what I missed was the wind—
its strident march along the landscape
stripping the San Juan mountains
particle by particle, I missed
its constancy, a living thing,
whispering then shrieking
through cracks in the windows,
the doorjambs, any opening
it could squeeze its fine fingers through,
pressing dry grasses down to the gray sandy earth
even bending bare branches, pointing
in only one direction, this way,
its mighty gusts shaking the house
to its foundation, bringing in
the wild—a mountain lion pacing,
tail swishing; first sound in the morning,
last before sleep, it vibrates
in your bones, you take it for granted,
like your heartbeat, but it unleashes
the thoughts you’ve fought so hard to keep in,
pressed along the length of your ribs,
tucked like a letter in a pocket of your body,
one you hoped no one would ever discover,
but the wind’s got hold of it, your secrets
come undone—all the cries and laments,
the children you never bore, the loves you’ve forsaken
that desperate longing you thought you would escape—
you can’t escape it, with that wind,
you don’t want to anymore.