The November winds are rushing in
It’s a tug of war from west to east
Combat between the seasons
They cannot settle, cannot agree.
One day the air is warm and damp;
The next it’s frost and chill,
And in between the gusts buffet my house
There is no standing still.
Clouds are torn to feathery shreds,
Then regroup in heavy layers,
And the pale yellow sun aches to shine
When a break thins here or there.
The wind pushes the clouds, rattles the trees,
Limbs bared against the night,
Moans ’round my panes and shakes the doors,
Creaking horribly even in daylight.
It’s busy and it’s fast, with things to do,
Carrying the old man on its back,
Hurried reminders to put things away,
Stock up on what you lack.
Batten the places where the wind whistles in,
Bundle your children up warm,
Set out the shovel and the salt box,
The respite is nearly over.
It’s a sadness with purpose, an acceptance of change,
Aware that moving forward is all that can be done.
The voice of the wind pauses rarely, in its work,
And you can tell that it’s a lonely one.
But it doesn’t judge, doesn’t fight,
doesn’t punish or wound;
The rushing air accepts what there is
and flows around or through.
How we choose to see its impact
determines our own fates,
We can move with the wind,
Or in resisting, lose the energy it takes.
When to flow and when to fight?
Which struggle is worth the time?
Is there any defense against such a force,
Neither friend nor enemy of mine?