Do you ever wonder, when the leaves dance in the wind, if stones get jealous?
Or, when the sun dives, bleeding through the evening sky, a silver tear slides down the moon's pockmarked face?

Do you ever wonder, if the glistening mist through weeping willow's boughs calms the whispering winter winds? Or quiets it? Is the snow their silent tribute, falling from the stark still clouds?

The wind you see, is madness. The spring sings after stillness, after soft snowdrift coats the landscape in white. The earth grows cold and thaws and crawls slowly out of slumber.

Spring sings and birdsong rings though the air. The flowers peek up from their beds and summer starts to stir.

The wind is madness because, as the brightest summers go on and on and the bees banquet seems never ending; the nectar ain't eternal.

It's the earth's lament, not winter itself, but the unending cycle. That's how it goes and that's how it blows.
I wonder if the earth cries hurricanes?