The wind woke me at three a.m.,
squeezing the house until its joints creaked,
stripping the yard of last year's leaves, scraping it clean.
I wanted to run out into it, stand with face upturned and arms out,
to let its buffeting scour me too, blast away my melancholy, anxiety,
to remind me how puny the world's worries are, compared to its glorious might.
I yearned for the wind to strip away all but hope, leave me fresh and clean, empowered.
But it was dark and cold, and everyone else slept, so I retreated
back under the blanket, curled, clenched like a fist,
and just listened to its roar.
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