The Wind

May 13, 2012
By cynthiawhite BRONZE, Fall River, Massachusetts
cynthiawhite BRONZE, Fall River, Massachusetts
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

I sit on the cold, chilled grass, on a night after hours of heavy rain,
The air is thick and moist, one at which my breathing must sustain.
And I hear a whisper and a scream from the far north.
As the trees rustle and their delicate leaves wave back and forth.

The wind is talking to me, telling me its secrets,
It cries its heartfelt stories and long lost regrets.
It whispers the names of the people it loves, the places it’s seen.
It screams that it misses the golden sand, and the sea that was aqua green.
It tells me how it’s seen tragic deaths, and violent killings.
But it speaks to me saying it has seen births and new beginnings.
It tells me how it’s a thief in the night, something that sees your every move
But it tells me how it keeps your lies, trying to make your stress soothe.

But then the wind tells me that it will never leave, never die without a last goodbye,
And for a moment then, I wish, that maybe I want to be like the wind,
To float away into the air and disappear without even the sound of a dropping pin.
But I just lay on the grass as the dew soaks my clothes, and my mind is inspired.
And I listen to the wind’s tales and find that I will forever listen, and never grow tired.

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