“windswept voices“
rough is the wind that forces
a trunk sideways from its long‑held berth,
not quick to undo what’s stood for years
yet close enough to warn me through its scrape:
we keep moving along the same worn track,
no pause in the work or its miles,
and something behind us still pushes forward,
brushing hard against these outer boards—
a shape from earlier country,
its gusts carrying what once passed through.
.








