Poem by R.M. Dolin, January 12, 2026
Read Original Version
Remembrance Wind
When I hiked the highest mesa
to lay down in open aspen
beneath a cacophony of colors,
Wind whispers through the leaves,
“Why do you come alone?”
“Because,” I sheepishly answer,
“I have not yet learned how to hear
what you are telling me.”
When I ride the rugged Paris-Roubaix
on a borrowed bicycle,
Wind pushes unrelenting headwinds
into my resolve,
teasing at each treacherous turn,
“Why must you endure alone?”
“Because,” I strain to say between
painful bounces off uneven cobblestones
battering my broken body,
“suffering should be done in solitude.”
That predawn morning I lean
my motorcycle into a sudden hairpin curve,
feeling Wind’s callous cold stiffen against
my worn leathers while shouting,
“Why do you tempt fate alone?”
“Because,” I throttle back,
feeling my foot-peg furrow
a deepening grove into the
despondently indifferent asphalt,
“it’s the only time I am at peace.”
When the streetlamp I embrace
that gray foggy night
rain shelters me from the sadness of tears,
Wind surgically cuts through tattered remnants of
who I boldly set out to be and queries,
“Why do you wander alone?“
“Because,” I defiantly declare
knowing the silent stones beneath me
are no longer mine,
“isolation is a precondition of my consequence.”
In the darkest depths of night
when no one’s here to hold me,
Wind gently tucks me in
while reassuringly whispering,
“You are not destined to be alone.”
“Not as long as I have you,” I softly say,
“Because, long ago I burned
fragrances of my lost love with sage,
her last tender touch,
her last lingering kiss,
watching the last remaining embers loft
smoke-filled heirlooms of hope
you now carry to me whenever we talk.
January 12th is my annual day of inward reflection and remembrance. It’s my version of what Mexican’s call, “Los Día de Muertos,” or “The Day of the Dead,” where loved ones are honored through remembrance ceremonies. My ceremony is preparing Polish peasant foods mom would cook when I was kid. Per Polish tradition, I set a place for her at my dinner table. Mom was an impactful voice of wisdom in my life and she never gave up trying to put me on a path toward joy, happiness, and peace. In this poem I wrote on mom’s birthday, she is Wind, who I talk to whenever I need advice or an unapologetic kick in the ass.
Note: Don’t incorrectly assume the last stanza is about pining over lost love because the line “burning fragrances of my lost love with sage” says otherwise. Burning sage is a purification ceremony; a way of cleansing oneself of their past while opening to wisdom, healing, and clarity. The last stanza is about letting go of lost love to allow for the hopefulness of a future love.
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