My apologies to the wind

My apologies to the wind. I think I was short with them yesterday--fed up with the way they were shaking my shingles. 

In my mind, there were leaf buds and cherry blossoms, but the wind that roared all day proclaimed an ever-lasting winter. With icy fists, they carried the hem of the White Witch's gown and turned to the masses with a sneer to say, "Bundle up. We'll be here for a while."

It appears that this so-called threat was––as they say––between my ears. 

Today, the wind was still; that's not why I'm grateful. In truth, I benefited from yesterday's fervor. Their uproar galled my quest for serenity, but their squall turned over mulch and matter. Dried leaves and persistent clover that lay in corners, unformed and neglected, required a nudge. 

If I had listened more closely, I might have heard them coaching, "Alright, wake up. We're turning the corner now, so eyes open!"

What if the wind hadn't called us to action? With my "wake me when it's warm out" attitude, I might have missed the need to shake out the season's debris. I might have missed the beauty it unearthed today.

Without rupture, there is no repair. Creativity is a mystery until it isn't. I didn't know why I wrote this story, but now I do. 

That's all, wind, and I thank you.