The wind is rising
on the western waterfront,
where people go
to say good night to the sun,
where lovers hold hands
because words are not needed,
where children play with kites
dreaming of flying with them.
The wind is rising
on the waterfront
where, still teenagers,
we kissed for the first time
when the bulb of the street-lamp
went out
and the darkness
seemed to be all for us.
The wind is rising
on your gray hair
and after a life together
we are not tired yet
of kissing under the same street-lamp.

February 2, 2020