He hated the wind
It made him superstitious
How it carried things away, on whim
With a certain disarray, of sound

He howled back at the wind
With fear behind his eyes
But it backed him into corners
Attacked by stealth, and surprise

He sensed armies of dead spirits
Crept upon him, just to seize
But now age came more steadily
And overpowered, with disease

Please bury him where no wind will blow
And bend the bough, beneath the breeze
Prepare the plot with the softest dirt
To comfort old bones, with final ease