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