What the Wind Knows

by Amy Harmon

I told you. You told me. Only the wind knows which truly comes first.

Eventually, we all became stones in the grass, moss-covered monuments, and sometimes . . . not even that.

Yeats writes about being changed utterly. I am changed utterly. Irrevocably. And though love is indeed a terrible beauty, especially given the circumstances, I can only revel in all its gory gloriousness.