Sonnet: Wind

November wind I called a poltergeist

until today.   Please stay.   Your breath has blown

my cover and exposed my own dark sprite:

how cold is only cold when I’m alone,

and wet is only clammy, only damp

when I’m alone and naming months and showers

for my own soaked  feet who stamp

the colored leaves who fell across the flowers.

Now they fly and spin, and now they’re bright with dew

as high as shins,  now not to be endured

with blame since you laughed “wet!” , since you

laughed “winds!”.   December rains make paths obscured.  

Let puckish meadows’ silhouettes caress

their welcome grasses on our festive dress.