Tonight, the wind
zips relentlessly
through the trees
and caresses the
grasses left in the
fields.
Chimes on the porch
sing the song of
the wind as well:
“Tell
me
where
to
go!
Where
are
you
go-
ing
so…”
fast and insistently;
It seems to
want to rip and
rattle. But
it is only doing
what it must do
to become
itself.
Like a dog
chasing an orange
ball across an
open field,
this more-than-a-breeze
moves swiftly,
leaping past rocks
to
bend almost
everything in
its path.
What was
a tall grass in autumn
now seems but a brittle,
brown paintbrush
with winter’s approach.
We will huddle by the
fire in our
yellow farmhouse.
Even if the
wind power
chokes the
lines that feed
that other power,
the hearth will
work its magic
of fire and flue.
A fireplace:
I remember standing
in a side room of
my childhood home;
trying to convince
my sibling that
the wind
(a tornado in this case)
would not harm us.
Of course,
I was not
convincing her
so much as
myself.
So too, this poem
is my meandering
means of getting
myself to the place
of either reassurance
or distraction.
~ spontaneously composed by Stan Stewart
~ Copyright © 2021 by Stan Stewart and muz4now, inc. All rights reserved.