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One moment a howling

Between forest and field,

Wind’s next moment bowing

Gentle feathers it wields.


Invisible shape and distinctness of scale

Wind answers to far more than only one name,

Typhoon or Cyclone, Tempest gust, Arctic gale

Moving the clouds aloft with little acclaim.


Harbor to winds that warm the Chinook

Wafting gently across moist Zephyrs,

Stirring waves untamed by grapple or hook

Tossing boats with ease and good measure.


Sometimes gusty and pure cold

Or the heat inside twisters,

By land and sea wind is bold

Oft raising blight or blister.


Power for sails or massive windmills

Making turns in the night and by day,

Wind remains hopelessly homelessly chilled

Constant churn keeping true rest at bay.


Winds have no real home or place to be boss

Solar winds in deep space, Greek Mistral—nature’s broom.

High swirling clouds—hurricane is aloft

African Sirocco, Arabian Simoom.


Tornado winds reach, winding down from above

Crossing flat plains, massive destruction they cause.

Wind shares in the draught and quite often will shove

White caps cross the seas to no Sailor applause.


Wind is a whisper between lovers and friends

Or violent blasts causing many to flee.

Wind may be broken to laughter—it depends,

Or angrily redressed many would agree.


Wind is enormous power and great force

Around every day for our unique use,

Invisible—merely harnessed by Norse,

Wind will forever remain on the loose.

© 2014, Michael Wegman

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