The wind is thick with scents of rain and pine,
And voices from a childhood long since passed;
It tears the laundry from the sagging line,
To whip the ghosts of summer through the mast.
A sudden gust brings back a mother’s face,
Another turn reflects a bitter fight;
The storm is not of air, but hollow space,
That drags the hidden burdens into light.
The traveler huddles as the gales begin,
To strip away the armor of the years;
He feels the stinging of a forgotten sin,
And drinks the salt of old, evaporated tears.
The morning sky is clear and bright and blue,
But every secret has been blown in two.
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