The Cruelty of Zephyrus

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The wind howls at my door and at my windows too.
Indeed much more so than ever I remember before now.
That is not to say that it did not howl, for many have told,
Tales of wind which would have surely raised spirits with its ferocity.

But oh how it does howl now, enough so to erase memory,
Of past howls as it is so loud I do not know how I could stand it
Were it to last any great period of time, for it has already been two
Days and I can already feel myself losing patience, towards the noise.

I think it a blessing that man found such use of shelter, as without it
We all would surely have perished for the noise and howl present now
Suggests that there would be nothing so strong about the human will
To stand against such forces, they are simply too strong.

I pull back the blinds, only quickly as I fear to greatly the winds
Will notice the weakness in the walls of this house,
For if they can see inside that will surely (as surely as the sun rises
Each day) be seen as an invitation to come inside, and I do not want that

So quickly, I dart my head beyond the sheets of safety to look upon
As damaged world, one that surely cannot sustain such force of nature.
But to my surprise it still stands, with little to no evidence that this
Wind that has been such bane to me has done anything to phase it.

Course the trees and plants and all manner of things still visible in
The depths of this most desolate December, most dreary of all months
Cold and frigid with the days still shortening rapidly, not till near the
End does hope begin to grow in our minds and souls for something better.

Such an awful month is this one known as December, it comes when
Unwelcome and stays far longer than we invited it for, rather like the
Relatives that swoon in during the same month for Christ’s birthday,
With intent hidden to stay longer than you had ever intended

Such cold wind is a perfect example of the best such a month can offer
And now as if to prove my point the window panes rattle in their wooden
Frames, it seems that dearest nature does not best approve of my compliments
Or rather criticisms, towards something which others may well love.

Dearest December, who received such a short end of all twelve straws,
Have to bear the insult and injury that is afforded to you by all those who have
To see you out in the northern hemisphere, we have come to dislike everything
That you represent, cold, snow, sleet, slush and ice, everything I despise.
Though poorest December, perhaps it is not all your fault
Indeed man is the one who gave you such distinction, that you should be
The one to bear all of the misfortune and distain that goes along with it
All the remarks made of harsh words, when you are not to blame

Surely as easily as your name was attached to the end of the year
So too could it have been April, May or June. But due to the cruel
Twist of fate and arbitrary choice your name was to lend itself to the
Final thirty of some three hundred and sixty days or more

Some praise can still be given to you, dearest December who bears
Such misfortune, for you unlike the others bears such time of renewal
And joyous overtones, of holidays and celebrations and times of
Vacations, for those lucky enough to receive them.

The same can be said for gifts and presents, for those fortunate
Enough to receive them and be delighted with the happiness such
Material goods can bring, the happiness of things which may or
May not have good use, but they will be replaced a year from now

A time of family, friends and good heavy drinking, I guess in some
Sort of way all of your shortfalls are made up for in the wealth of
Other celebration and joy, which can be the only viable reason for
Why so many people do look forward to your coming each year.

Now January, there is a miserable month if ever there was one
Worse still than December, if ever that was possible.
Though the days began to get longer once again that is negated by
Such cold weather getting colder than it was in the cold month before

No holidays or celebrations are to be found nestled in its bosom,
Just cold empty promises made by one person or another, usually to
Themselves for something they plan to do better or avoid in the coming
Year, which is normally broken before the month’s day turns thirty-one

But alas the winds have ceased their howl and noise,
Perhaps Zephyrus has heard my words of request for a momentary
Lull in the battering of the windows and doors of my house
Though I doubt my annoyance factors high on his list of things to do

But through this peace, as temporary and short-lived as it may be
I may be able to pen something of note worthiness, something that
Has some more weight than that which has just been written, for surely
No one will remember this, not even I after I have finished.

Indeed even I alone am finding it difficult to remember the plot and point
Of such a piece of pseudo poetry that has gone on this long and has yet to
Instil in me so underlying theme or overriding topic which I am supposed
To take away from it, and it was written in whole or part by me.

And as I thought, as I pen such words to describe the lull the wind
Again resumes its war on all things fixed and steady, to begin anew its
Attempt to overthrow and overturn everything that stands in its way.
It is a wonder that the glass has not shattered under the weight.

I now hear noises from the many locations around this old shack that
I have not heard in the whole of my life here, or indeed anywhere
Else I have ever been, some of these noises so new to me in their design
Send shivers down my spine, or perhaps that is merely the draft from the door

It now sounds as though there is a man rapping at the door, leastways
It must be a man for unless the woman carries more strength than I
Can imagine she would be hard pressed to make noises such as these
Course I have heard stranger things than that, some from this wind alone

Damn, the wind has just found my chimney and blown the fire which
I spent so much time getting started out in an instant.
Spreading too with its gusto the hot coals out from the hearth and across
My floor, one hitting my foot, at least the burn will keep it warm tonight

I do hope that none of those coals ignites any of the bare wood lying around
The room, although it could provide me with a good deal of warmth
Were it to set this shack ablaze I do fear that once the flame had consumed the
Whole of my house, I would rather be left without shelter, unfortunate in this wind

That or I would be engulfed in the flames before I managed to escape to freedom
And safety, and although that would again solve the problem of my frigidness
I would suggest that as I am already going to spend the rest of my life somewhere
Hot, I do not need the ride there to be hot as well.

Perhaps this is the lords way of compensating, making me cold and freezing now
And off setting that in the life following this one, where I will surely be
Warmer than I have ever desired to be, so hot that were I still here I would be
Melting, though given my current state I do not think that too be possible

Given the lack of both a flame and light as the coals fade with their loss of temperature
I will resign my pen to the table from whence it came, and try to get some measure
Of rest before the sun rises tomorrow, though that is unlikely with the wind still
Howling, and considering the weather it would be surprising if the sun rose at all





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