Hawkman
03-05-2010, 06:42 AM
The wind speaks to us.
Sometimes it whispers,
Gently strokes our cheeks,
And through our hair,
Runs insubstantial fingers,
Whispering secrets.
In anger it can flay us,
Tear aside our homes,
Level forests in its rage
And roaring, goad the sea
To form foaming mountains
Which crash upon our shores.
Perceived through traces,
The things it carries in its wake,
This elemental force,
By touch can sooth us.
The heat of summer or exertion,
Cooled by wind’s compassion.
But fickle is its mood,
And it may, perhaps, ignore us.
But always present,
Although still and thoughtful,
Beneath the arc of sky,
It lends us breath for life.
Sometimes it whispers,
Gently strokes our cheeks,
And through our hair,
Runs insubstantial fingers,
Whispering secrets.
In anger it can flay us,
Tear aside our homes,
Level forests in its rage
And roaring, goad the sea
To form foaming mountains
Which crash upon our shores.
Perceived through traces,
The things it carries in its wake,
This elemental force,
By touch can sooth us.
The heat of summer or exertion,
Cooled by wind’s compassion.
But fickle is its mood,
And it may, perhaps, ignore us.
But always present,
Although still and thoughtful,
Beneath the arc of sky,
It lends us breath for life.