The Wind.
By Andrew Hide
The Wind comes crashing to me, like a stranger at the door, repeated thuds of purcussion, as waves upon the shore. It carresses through the trees and roof tops over head, I hear it's gentle whisper, as I lay liserning in my bed. I often lay in wonder, where did the wind begin? Why is it only at night you can hear it's spirit sing? I've seen it rock the tulips on a beautiful spring morn, and rustle leafs of autumn, on a silver, dew wet lawn. Is it rushing to tomorrow? Trying to get there in a day, or trying to escape the woes of yesterday? Does it feel the earths fingers, as it brushes over hay? Or maybe just a ghost? the spirit of yesterday.Written February 23rd, 2002 © on Feb 23 2002 12:10 PM PST, Andrew Hide other
AI analysis available. Enable JavaScript to interact.
About this line
"The Wind comes crashing to me,..."