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!

Oliver and the coffee maker
Sometimes you just need coffee.


Leave a Reply to Bella Putt Cancel reply

Your email address will not be published.