The Hand of the Wind [poem]
Why would the wind have such long fingers?
Unseen, they reach through leafy hair,
chilling the neutral nightsome air —
the frisky daytime glare emboldened
by their
blow-by-blow
rain-or-snow
batten-down-the-shutters
flappening flow.
Why does the wind have such white knuckles?
Brisk and bony, sometimes blue;
there’s no one he will answer to.
Whistling down his ferocious flute,
he makes
leaves flying
clay drying;
constantly he’s trying
to arrive.
Why did the wind not show some mercy?
Turning twister, howling hurricane —
brief respite will come in mid-refrain
when his eye looks down his blowy nose.
Soon he’ll
(don’t be fooled)
ridicule,
scratching out your rainbow
with his nails.
Why will the wind never blow away,
foreverandaday be far,
broadening out his isobars?
He harbours no thought for what we think
for he
loves to breathe
roar and seethe
slap your face with gusto
in his hand.
Why should the wind leave us alone? —
remove his wanton crazy blust;
for all that would remain is dust.
He aids cool condensation’s flow,
thus making all earth’s bounties grow —
His only rule of thumb: His own.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 