The Playful Wind
The wind that sighs among the heads of wheat
is playing games, with neither thought nor soul;
its whispers lie, the breeze which cools your heat
is whim alone, your comfort not its goal.
Its fingers touch your face with pleasant scent,
its daggers find your bones in winter frost,
the clouds are toys, and storms are wind's lament -
the wilder winds, the greater human cost.
Yet, wind is not to blame for breaking hearts,
it has no ill intent with its misdeeds;
its nature is to come and then depart
without respect to any other needs.
Enjoy the wind, and fly in it, who dare;
the wind will blow away, it doesn't care.
By Margaret Gibson