Wind in Autumn

By Andrew R. Duckworth

The wind carries stories
You can hear on its breath
As it sweeps our dust off the
Canyon floor, bends limbs.
Some are pleasant, complimenting
The tales the sun gives.
Some are horrors, accompanying
The violent words of clouds.

When I listen, I hear the story
Of the colors changing, of
The lake water growing cold,
Of the slowing down of humanity,
No more trips to the beach.
I hear the footsteps of a deer
In nearby meadows, of turkey hens
Pecking the moist ground,
Of the shortening of daytime,
Of the final tomatoes ripening.

I hear the echoing of words from
Nearby towns, the speech that
Keeps us in doors to dwell in our
Own loneliness having heard them
All too many times before.
I hear the cold scream with
Chilling shrieks from open mouths,
The tyrants and the cowards
Hand-in-hand with crooked grins,
The words of ghoulish control.

The wind will carry the bitter
And the sweet, the stories that
One needs and the stories that
Bring with them deafening cries.
Should the storm come, both are
Necessary- one to prepare and
The other to show hope yet lives.
The wind brings with it living
Stories, those of balance that
We must contend with.