What about that wind and the red shovel I left out which now
clatters against the porch?
Last week a foot of snow spent my back and this week I laid low.
Contentedly.
Until this noisy wind reminds me I am alone.
Like jet plane rising and constant.
Then silent.
A capricious personality.
Needs to be known and then slips away.
For my house to creak the force is strong.
This house, big, and somewhat new, took so long to feel familiar.
Too clean and modern.
Like a fancy hotel room. Comfortable but lacking.
But always warm even when the wind growls.
Like tonight, a wet melty December day when
Snow should be blowing
But the climate shifts and hooks my children's anxiety inside me
And the hot tea tries to comfort a loneliness
And remnants of fall leaves sound against the clapboards.
And I think of no one. 

2016?


WIND
Does it roar? Whistle. Growl. Knock on the door? Scare me? No