As I air out sheets on a summer day,
flowery linens play chase in the breeze.
The weather picks up like a roar from a lion taking stage,
it echoes in the heads of my audience and attempts to pry them from my clothes pin fingers.
All my reds,
yellows, and
browns are blown and battered by fierce winds. 
Inside, a flower is unfurling.
It is deafening.
It is that calm.
I want to be wrapped in a cocoon of fleece blankets.
But the wind is relentless and smells of cold,
of lying in the snow,
of watching flakes drift slowly to the ground,
it smells of winter.