A Weather Calendar Has No Lines
The wind came knocking on my window last night,
it shook a skeleton wrist and rattled its bones
hard upon the glass.
It sounded like winter
was roaring through Fall with early
howls and growls,
it sounded like a warning
from a hound of hell.
I sat listening to its mournful wail
until dozing in a chair
I slept.
By morning, nothing of the storm was left
but fallen branches and naked trees.
Yet I heard a troubled sky last night
it entered my mind where it still prowls
tearing up roots,
it thuds upon a fortress of fear,
or any ill-defined or false barrier
I had thought to place between
one season or another.
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