Windy Winter Afternoon

Why, do you suppose, is it that on a bleak-day-turned-sunny, we would be melancholy?

Is it the constant blowing of the wind, making us want to sit close with someone we love, to feel close and needed, but our not being able to? Is it the restlessness of the wind, which races here from someplace else and yet, entirely discontent with staying, rushes past without even acknowledging the place?

The wind makes me think of faraway places and faraway times, things unreachable and untouchable as I sit in the window's late afternoon sun. The sun is cheery but also far away, and the strength of the wind makes it seem almost watery, dilute.

The windows need to be cleaned, and on them I can see the shadows of anxious branches, clearly disturbed by the wind. The chimes noise their concern too, and I imagine that they're clinging to each other, the branches and chimes. They must be cold.

When the wind has gone for a few moments, the tension eases a bit and everything, including my heart, waits still.