My Life In Word

You Will Hear

When the wind blows,
you will hear me
in the hush between the leaves,
in the soft bend of branches
that know how to bow
without breaking.

You will hear me
where the screen door sighs,
where the old house settles
into its bones,
where curtains lift
like hands remembering touch.

I will not come loudly.
I have never been thunder.
I have always been
the small sound after—
the breath left behind,
the whisper beneath the storm.

When the wind blows,
listen close.

I will be there
in the grass leaning one way,
in the chimes trembling silver,
in the trees telling secrets
they were never brave enough
to speak while standing still.

You will hear my love
even if my name
has fallen from your mouth.

You will hear my ache
even if time
has covered it with dust.

You will hear my prayer
moving through the pines,
soft and stubborn,
still searching for the window
you forgot to close.

And if the night grows heavy,
if loneliness sits beside you
like an old familiar coat,
do not be afraid
of what the dark carries.

Some things return
not to haunt us,
but to remind us
they were real.

So when the wind blows,
you will hear
what I could not say.

You will hear
what I tried to survive.

You will hear
the part of me
that never stopped reaching
for home.

Simona A. Brinson

Photo by Alistair MacRobert on Unsplash 
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