A grieving wind

A grieving wind

It is an angry wind

Denying its agency

Even as it sighs

Whispering in sadness

As it leaves

Twisting and turning

Demanding a return

In the echo of its departure

Expecting a welcome

Of acceptance

In the inevitability

Of its decline

Time takes its toll

On the departed

There are no stages

But a progression

Of wintry zephyrs

Approaching commonality

As the imprecision

Of their collective

Becomes more measured

Their fluctuating mood

More understood

Even as its bluster

Becomes more tempered

The chill of its touch

A little less defined

There can still be

A keen edge

To a grieving wind.