The West Wind*

PTSD

The sigh in the eaves
Is nothing but the west wind
I remind myself.

There’s nothing human

In the sound
But it’s so damned close.

I listen to the vocabulary

Syntax and sentence structure
Of the complaining wind.

The sigh in the eaves

Is not the moaning
Of the lost I could not save.

It is not the open-mouthed dead
With sightless eyes
Looking to me for explanation.

That’s what I tell myself
When the west wind sings
And the leaves of autumn scatter.


*PTSD is a terrible partner and a tall price to pay for the good one attempts. There are thousands whose struggles make mine seem silly. God bless them.