Hurricane and a Sweater

Light warm wind, invites you in, compensating for the summer heat, with no shadows to rest behind in the dessert of Middle East, picks up and disappears.

 Hair curls having the time of their life. Invisible game of hiding, and seeking, never finding, but definitely feeling. A stream of cool air trickling, as you put a warm sweater on. No one minds cooling off, but a draft does get to ya.

Departs, you keep the sweater on, unsure if there is a return. Sure enough, the flow gushes in a burst, you lock the door avoiding clinking of the door knobs, Yet it drums against the door frames, signaling a friendly visit you don't catch the drift. A draft, a swirl of chilly air swooshing through the carefully rearranged living room, a perfect clouded dance circulating, expanding.

Debating to evacuate or grab a pashmina, indecisiveness costs more than two pashminas, the swirl turns into a thicker funnel, surrounded by dust, darkness, vast speed, you're no storm chaser, yet it found you.

Proceeding to flood the wooden crevaces of your home, cascading down the stairwell, you cannot make it to a door, nor your pashmina. Still day, without daylight, giant hailstones cooling down your skin, grizzly sounds of wood, glass, and clanking metals, flows tastefully through the hurricane, pulled by the very same hair curls, you're centre. Debating with the ripped roof, pushing away the rubble of your beloved fireplace.

Short lived, yet a deadly storm that wasn't on the bucket list, yet here you are, in a sweater, waltzing weightlessly.

It's warm again, and you're wishing for a breeze.