In the Night, the Wind in the Leaves
swirled and rustled out our open window as if for the first time, as if we never were, the earth newborn, sweet. And what of us – asleep on the too-soft bed in the old mountain house? Gone. Also our children. The ones who lived, the ones who died before they grew whole. All night the breeze swirled and rustled through the leaves as if it played a secret game, swirling and rustling all night as if we never were.