People line up at my door.

I ignore them.

It’s windy and rainy and cold

inside.

 

They line up, 

and frantically shout at me,

asking me 

why the sun is gone inside.

 

I am drenched,

cold, and rubbed raw

by the wind and snow,

blowing on my face.

 

I want to step outside,

but people will run to me

and ask me why 

it is raining inside.

 

I will let in a few people 

who know why,

and they’ll try to fix the water

dripping from the ceiling,

 

and try to stop the air

rushing through the ducts,

and they don’t have to use

tools and machines.

 

Words. Like magic.

Arms. Like walls.

Hands, pulling mine away

from my own.

 

Outside, there is a dancer,

making his way 

across the highway.

Smiling.

 

He leaps to a willow tree

and gently dances,

with the autumn breeze.

Smiling.

 

But when autumn leaves,

a flurry of cold air

surrounds him.

And he’s drenched.

 

And he wishes

that autumn will soon 

make it’s way around.

And he knows it will.

 

So until then, 

I will sit by the fire with him,

while his arms and words,

surround me.

 

And I will be his umbrella.

Until he is dry.

And smiling.

And we will wait for autumn.

 

And when it comes around again,

it will first separate my hands from my claws,

and then she will take away the dancer,

and he will be gone.

 

But I will be dry.

And those people

at my door

will leave.

 

And we will sit in the shade

of the great willow tree.

he with an arm around autumn,

and autumn with a hand for me to hold.

 

And I will be grateful.