Ruach (The Wind)

[JacobPike]

Ruach (The Wind)

November. A dregs-of-autumn day
now turned to night.
And you come to my room. You,
of your sacred shyness and deep-hearted rhymes,
of silent fire and youthful gentleness,
whom I loved from the first as only
one unbruised by life could do. You,
who so easily chose another one (not me), and with him walked away
as I looked on in silence, feeling pavement slowly melting into dust.

And now you come. Your world is ripped apart,
your chosen one betrayed you, now lies casually with another
in the room just overhead. And though you've done no wrong,
your weep for crimes against yourself,
your trust, your youth, your faith in any goodness
in the world. You are yourself to blame, you say,
for trusting in the heart of others, giving
of yourself so much, believing that love given
would be given in return.
High crimes against yourself
that led to grasping pills (too few, thank God)
and finally to this place in a friend's room.

I sit upon my bed, trying to find the words
to draw the anguish from your heart. "Don't cry,"
I say, "You're not to blame. You're not to blame. God does
not hate you. I don't hate you. Please, don't hate yourself." I kneel
so awkwardly beside your chair, reach out and take you
in my arms. It is the first time that I've ever
touched you. There I'd kneel forever, would it do you good.

And then I hear it, low but steady rushing,
soft heart-beating in the pressure of the air,
as if a wind were motionlessly circling high
above our heads. It's in my mind, I tell myself, but then
you, shivering, whisper, "Do you hear it, too?"
I nod, and hold you ever closer in the gentle storm,
your body resting easier now, at peace,
ruach become shekinah circling in above us
in compassion fearful to behold.

The minutes passed. You rose and left,
and we returned to casual friendship, just
as we had before. You chose another one
(not me) and we became just one of many,
each to each. In years to come, I'll casually speak
of my past love for you, and you'll reply
you never were aware of how I felt. And that's
as it should be. But still I hear the rushing of the wind.
And are there times when you still hear it, too?

June 6, 2005

[oneighty]

1. The wind has passed you by

The memory lingers on.

There are many such stories in a poet's heart.

Welcome to DU and the Poetry Group

180

[JitterbugPerfume]

2. is love better to give,or to recieve

Ido not know---but your poem is beautiful

welcome to DU

I am looking forward to reading more of your work