Sometimes it's warm, sometimes it's cold, sometimes it can feel wet.
It plays on days when the sun is out, it dances between the trees…
It flows and blows, and drafts on by, only seen by moving leaves.
It must have life, for all the sounds, it makes when passing by…
A screaming gale, a moaning wail, and then the softest sighs.
It plays with things, that lay about, left by you and me…
But when we look, it drops them down, does it do this just to tease?
The rain and dust, to most of us, can be a mess some days…
But to the wind, their like a friend, and many times they play.
I've seen the dust play in the yard, and then there comes the rain…
I listen to it calling me, tapping softly on my pane.
It has to know so much of us, as much as it's around…
But it keeps it's distance most the time, in the trees above the ground.
Like a child at play, it makes them sway, they remind us of a time…
When mothers dear, would hold us near, and rock to nursery rhymes.
Ron Walker October 1999
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