Gusting with gusto

With ease, the breeze picks up pace,
Howling winds wind up hitting this place,
A gale rails against us with force,
This, after all, is storm season of course,
And with a power, it blows us off course,
Drenching all with the fall of drops,
Dripping hard on to the ground,
All of us slipping down on soggy leaves,
Which leaves us bruised with bumps,
And lumps as we muddle through the puddles,
Streets turn to streams,
Rivers and lakes,
Someone screams, quivers and aches,
And slowly, after the deluge,
We make our way,
To our home,
Our sanctuary,
Our refuge.