The wind speaks its own romance language and she can interpret all of its breezes, gales, and tempests.
When the damp ochre leaves fall and the porch swing rocks with a ghostly presence, she writes her calculations in the air with her index finger.
The wind proclaims that the cold moon is coming, a new year will begin, and the bliss point on the dial will change once again.
Next year, she will be polished like silver tongs selecting the perfect ingredients for her life. The mystery of love will be temporarily unlocked.
While the north winds warn and the westerly winds resurrect, she will again triumph with trumpets and troubadours.
The tempest of transformation is upon us all.