November Fog (weather; personified)

I think the weather's having a bad day.
When she walks, her toes make trails in the mud, reluctant as they drag along.
When she walks, each foot is so heavy that the ground sags and frowns, and each step costs the effort of a mile.
When she speaks, the song in her voice is absent, dissolving into a grim monotone.
When she speaks, her voice is deep and hollow, like someone carved out all the joy and shoved it back in hastily, leaving it twisted and warped.
When she cries, her tears are a hurricane that sweep the world off its feet, rattling even the ocean tide.
When she cries, she wails, and her disheleved hair becomes the harsh wind that tears the leaves away.
When she laughs, she throws her head back and makes thunder, because some supposed luck turned her joy sour.
When she laughs, the winds she whished and whooshed not long ago steal her smile, and she chokes on her joy.
When she sleeps, the serenity of the night is not enough to hold her up, and she rests her head on her handcrafted gray clouds, storm clouds.
When she sleeps, she sleeps for a long time. A very long time. She knows she needs it.
When she wakes up, she opens her eyes, then closes them because the world is so bright, too bright, and then opens them again.
When she wakes up, she embraces her fog and dances in its refreshing cold, beautiful, because maybe it was only perception that got in joy's way.
When she dances, her footsteps set off the best kind of shooting stars.
When she dances, the leaves dance with her, before falling down with the soft breeze into a pretty patchwork, knit with a thousand imperfections.
I think the weather's telling us that today is a new day.