Wind combs the grass through my backyard like a hand
Looking for something lost.
Wind skips around with streamers rustling
The grass and whispers its secrets while
Passing by.

It laughs in glee and screams in
Anger; moans in sorrow and whistles in excitement.
Though it cannot wave at us,
It taps us on the shoulder and plays
Hide and seek until we are dizzy from spinning in its
Whirlwind.

Wind is tough; it relentlessly shreds autumn leaves
With its nails and teeth
Until they are skeletons of their former glory.
It launches trees across yards into unsuspecting windows
In its blind fury. It hurls anything in the ground
In its temper tantrum, just letting off steam.

But, wind is also gentle. It guides the newly hatched
Butterfly upwards and lightly pushes it to fly.
It flows between blades of grass, encouraging
Them to grow in its extravagant sleek grace.
In the end, wind is combing, searching through
The grass for something lost.