November

The nimbus hangs low,
Almost taking the form of a dhow,
Floating meters above,
Awaiting to gush water,
On dwellers below.

The wind's already blowing cold,
I can feel it in my deepest bone.
Blood turns white,
I can hardly feel my feet.
My head,
Once bold,
Now bowed.

From the thickest forests,
The wind blows,
Unsettling the heavy clouds,
Causing them to drop chilling loads,
Ice cold water,
That duly blinds,
My eyes,
and gives the soul longing.

Shivering,
My clothes sodden,
Fabric clang to flesh,
My feet sinking under wet earth,
Slowing my pace,
But with the winds I cannot race,
Not with the falling rains either.
So I take my fate,
and indulge in the sate.

As winds pass,
So do the days,
Life turns green,
Rivers roar with rage.
The rush persists,
The mud annoys.
Beautiful irksome times.

Its November.