asking for names

Here I stand at dusk

Listening.   

to the rhythm of the wind.

 Even with this golden pink light

 As it partners with mountain, hillock and grove

 Mostly, I listen.

These words are printed across the valley,

I can’t breathe.

Never again.

I hear my own breath start

 and stop.

  I hear the wind speaking through centuries

  The wind splitting my heart open

 to allow the knife-sharp pain,

 in.

I listen.

As soft grasses rustle in reply,

touching my ankles and my knees, both soft and sharp.

like the silhouettes clarifying,

 as nighttime nears.

A chime is rung from afar.

Asking

   for the names of all cherished.

Each name is weighted and hanging in mountain air.

Each name is a clear and precious drop of rain,

Here, in the center of my pounding, aching heart.

Echoing our cries

   of inhumanity lived and witnessed each and every day.

Cries that penetrate heart, breath,

 rock, air, and time,

 shadows roll across the land.

We offer water in cupped hands,

On ancient and crumbling steps

One said to another, is this our chosen way?

 N. L. Reynolds