Poem: A Windy Monday

The howling sound, 
the waving bare branches.
Your age old greetings,
timely every fall,
dreaded every winter.

Clouds are pushed here and there,
fallen leaves swept away.
What's not fixed or tied down
flown off.

Gone is the past season of fear
that virus spread through the air.
Holidays are here,
relief is near,
hopes flare.

The whirring and squealing,
as if demanding
or begging
for a medal.
Only my bad poem shows up
for comfort.