The wind howled for hours last night. It tossed me in my bed as surely as if I were in a hammock strung between high trees, death a long fall away. I cursed the wind. I called it vicious, raging, cruel, and a bully. But, on waking, I realize the wind proves my complete insignificance and powerlessness. Wind isn’t cruel; it is utterly indifferent and beyond grasping.

And so, again, I push together the stones of my sanity, until the wind blows, as it will, long after I’m dead.

Unhinged (a seasonal poem)
Wind Makes Crazy (a timely poem)