It is not she but the wind that keens, wandering, probing, unearthing, looking for things it has lost. Looking for the truth it dusts away the loose soil, all that is not tied down in the world, making canyons out of friendships and wind-pebbles out of dalliances. And finds that those other things are also gone–—love, close companionship, trust, faith in human nature, some justice perhaps. It grieves intensely for them. In summer it is lulled, diverted, tired. But come the winter it rises up in a madness of grief.  And because these are not things it can ‘get over’ it remains in mourning. The loss of one thing, one life becomes prolonged, enlarged into the loss of much that is human, much that is natural. Its geography of sadness.







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