Mental Weather

In my head strong winds are blowing.
Thoughts skitter hither and yon.
Of course, it's autumn.

Conviction kneels to the wind
just as trees bow down.
It's cloudy, but as yet no rain.

A few images cluster together:
roof tiles nailed down;
we pigs, at least, have each other.

When the wolf is strong
enough to blow down our straw house,
we will have no one.

Alone, I dream of bottles and pills,
of a wolf undressed
without either basket or cape.

What would it take
to once go to bed with three bears
and then awake
to a world where real sun is shining?