I had not thought before of the wind’s longing, How it always seems in search of something lost, Like a cloud set down on a green hill at evening Or a letter trembling in a young woman’s hand, Going about the world in search of this one thing, Day after day, year after year, as ghosts are said to do; Setting chairs cartwheeling from cafes in the street, Tearing down powerlines, lifting up roofs, Refusing to countenance any secret places Where the source of its deep sorrowing might hide.   But whispering, too, the deepest secrets of its heart, Sand…