Turn the poet out of doors. . .

To the Thawing Wind
by Robert Frost

Come with rain. O loud Southwester!
Bring the singer, bring the nester;
Give the buried flower a dream;
make the settled snowbank steam;
Find the brown beneath the white;
But whate'er you do tonight,
bath my window, make it flow,
Melt it as the ice will go;
Melt the glass and leave the sticks
Like a hermit's crucifix;
Burst into my narrow stall;
Swing the picture on the wall;
Run the rattling pages o'er;
Scatter poems on the floor;
Turn the poet out of door.

Nate Notes

This poem is really about Spring but my thawing wind comes in Autumn. I pass on spring and all the allergies, I shun and shade myself from the suffocating heat of summer, but autumn calls me out to my loved and native element. This waning season has become my favorite for so many reasons. Like the harvest itself, all things become ripe and vibrant to the senses. I love the all the sights, not only in the forest and fauna but on the people as well, all the rich colors and earth tones loosely draped on branches and beings alike. I love the crisp clarity that comes with the cooling air and in each breath. I love the rich pungent scent of things returning to the earth. I love the crackle of leaves under foot and the cheers of children diving into collected heaps of Nature's cotton candy. I love the chill on my face, the wind playfully tossing my short hair and the cozy warmth that only comes from a well loved sweater or hoodie. I love lazy drives through the winding panorama of color covered canyons in a convertible with inspiring instrumentals providing the soundtrack.

I often stand at my office window watching for the first signs of turning. I am waiting, wishing for my thawing wind to turn me out. . .