
Windsong: A Poem
The wind makes its music in the trees,
Rustling the branches,
Rattling the leaves.
It brushes its silvery fingers
Through the grass,
Across the colors, of stained window glass.
It whistles its soothing tones
Through the fields of green and yellow,
Across the shining surface of a pond.
Sometimes it turns into a lion,
Ripping, roaring, tearing,
Snarling, snapping, growling.
It bats paper bags,
Drives the rain,
Snarls the trees.
It swats crispy leaves,
Snatches hats,
Rips away homes.
It blows in the storm clouds,
Then brings in the sun.
The wind plays its music,
Sweet, wild tones
In the evening.
It kisses the sun,
Embraces the moon,
And blows the starlight down.
The wind blows its snaking tendrils
Across tear-stained faces,
Through the bars of a wind chime.
The wind has played its music,
Sweet, haunting, gentle, wild,
Through the ages.
Oliver’s Travels!



2 Comments
A loyal fan
Very nice!
Bella Putt
Beautiful poem!