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The Blowing
March 9, 2014
You throw my hair around so much,
I don't know why I try to make it look nice.
You push dirt in my face as though I have offended you,
So harshly in the early morning of this January day.
But I do not hate you,
As you shove dead leaves at,
My cold and hunched over body.
I do not hate you as you rip the,
Important papers from my hands.
As you force me to walk through an invisible ocean,
that pushes me away as I try to walk.
© Michael G., Glocester, RI
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