Last night the wind changed directions.
No longer the salty cold mist.
Nor the damp blanket that quiets my little town.
From the east, the dry wind opened up the night.
To a warm yellow moon.
And acorns falling on my rooftop.
And the faraway smell of wood burning.
All the thoughts of my past.
The familiar cold.
Blew into the ocean.
Given back to the place of their origin.
And as with everything,
The season comes to an end.
But after I have already moved on to my next life.
With no need to haunt this one any longer.
To try to confine myself to the smaller version.
As if shedding my skin.
To be contained.
It wants to blow you wide open.