It gathers slowly,
From some far-off fern-covered field




Where all the winds are born.
From the infant swoosh of breezes brushing branches

To the tumultuous tumble of tornadoes,


Wind is a winding, weather-worn witch
Rising high with the tide and





Dipping low when someone forgets your name
Wind is never lost
Because it makes its own geography
Swirling in an orchestra of gale-gouged whistles
It moves the clouds
And rustles your hair
It coaxes out storms from the sea; monstrous gusts that will cause casualties
As it ruffles that






Scarlet dress of yours.