These misty winds are bringing back something, what, I cannot quite recognise.
Perhaps, a memory.
Perhaps, a thought.
Perhaps, the makings of my own mind.
When the cold tip of my fingers out of habit reach out to my freezing face, a warmth spreads in my heart and I’m sure, these hazy winds are bringing back something.
These winds though lovely are harsh and I would easily prefer the safety of layers warm clothes but I know these murky winds are up to something, when I crave to touch bare handed life blooming through a Phlox.
Words don’t come easy now, as they do in summer and just evaporate into the thin air. But I can feel in my bones, these smokey winds are up to something when what I speak weaves itself in the thick folds of chilly air.
The Sun has burned down my foot prints and the rain has washed them away but in the snow they seem to dwell and when I retrace them, I know these smoggy winds are bringing back something when I am led to the shelter of an old friend.
These blankets of snow that I see, remind me of how life can be, though the book cannot change now, a new chapter so shall it be. My words in ink will fade away, my deeds these winds will keep and I hear, that, they are up to something.
I, the Heliophile, the Pluviophile but in this moment more in love with the feuillemort leaves around the deciduous trees and these cloudy winds are surely up to something, as it brushes these leaves away, wiping the slate clean, making way for the spring.
But this wind, how restless and bustling is here but not for long, it will be gone and I’d still be wondering if it were right to wish it hadn’t, when a nostalgic blow of glaucous air brings to me all the answers, so I shut my eyes, and the wind can leave for now.
But once again the cycle will come to a halt at the most pleasant time of the year, like the scintillating star atop the Spruce or the Pine or the Fir shines brightest of all.
Perhaps, to bring back the old.
Perhaps, to make way for the new.
Perhaps, just to make it’s presence known.