The Wind.
Just a breath,
Making the crimson leaves flutter on the branches—
Just a breeze,
Bringing scents of tangy heather on its wings.
Just a zephyr,
Skimming over the water of a sparkling brook—
Just a waft,
Ruffling the feathers of a skylark as it sings.
Now a gust,
Swirling foam into the sea-breakers—
Now a squall,
Catching seagulls and tossing them to and fro.
Now a flurry,
Cold and icy, whistling through the tree-tops—
Now a draught,
Playing with the dancing flakes of gentle snow.
Then a gale,
Forcing branches to creak and bend and sway—
Then a cyclone,
Whirling madly, whipping storms up from the seas.
Then a tempest,
Wildly plunging, furious like a maddened steed—
Then a blizzard,
Hurling hail through the branches of the trees…
Just a puff,
To blow a butterfly over the daisy-studded meadow—
Just a kiss,
To ripple the glassy surface of the lake.
Just a whistle,
To skim the russet fur of a prowling vixen—
Just a whisper,
To cause a tiny curl of moss to shake.
What is this?
So strong, so gentle, madly violent, softly light?
What is this?
So wild, so whispery — Nature’s dancing airy sprite?
It is the Wind.
