# The Wind and Me
**by Ray Shermer**

On this leaden gray day, the first autumn winds coerce
the sieves of my house, droning like a turbid sifter,
grinding foreign matter and depositing tiny particles
against my windows.
Outside, a banging wood fence burrows into my mind,
weltering skewered words and needling difficult lines
into vacuous prose.
Leaves, whirling, swirling, brown and crisp,
blow round the corners of my house,
piling up secreted lines.
For my pen has been bereft since this windy ogre arrived.
And as I write I know it has no voice.
It only blows cold.
Perhaps, when it fades, my mind will become resolute
and I will write with renewed autumn serenity.