Did it wake you, darling?

Did the restless turn of the earth pull you from your murky slumber?

Did the howl that rips away through the barren arms of the trees bring you back from the fog you sank into?

Long, moonless hours, chilled rooms and warm nesting blankets; an empty coffee mug sitting on your cluttered desk. It still holds something stronger than her herbal tea.

Your mind is the fretful buzzing fly that has found himself caught in a honey jar, stationed for a time in a translucent prison.

The wind is lonely, he can never rest.

His voice breaks like your heart when it hurdles around the structure of your home.

It tosses and turns and screams in the topmost regions of heaven itself, and it descends in a whirl of sound and feeling that you cannot see but sometimes for the joyous way it picks each fallen leaf and throws them aloft in a semblance of flight just like the birds who swim abreast in it, for really what is life but a current

like airwaves or ocean’s wrinkles.

And for the nights like tonight, all bitter cold and dripping wet like the clearness of her tears, when the whispery wind make beckon call the elements to twirl for his enjoyment.

The wind is lonely, he will never rest.