How the winds blow - be it gentle or strong - matters
Sometimes it feels good and sometimes it shatters
Like leaves in autumn, dancing in the breeze,
Or a ship adrift, lost upon the seas.

Windy winter day,
You walk alone in the white and gray.

I walk four paces far from you,
A ghost in the snow's fair ballet.

A bitter breeze blows from the west,
Interrupted by my wispy form.

Graces your rosy cheek,
And you turn to where the winds came from.

Squinting through the blinding snow,
You stare right at me.

And for a moment I think you know,
That I am here, a winter's ghost.

Like a sweet hymn of orchestra
The wind blew and the night was soft
Pearly snowflakes falling gently
into a winter land

She walks out of the house
with her gleaming eyes
Her blonde hair drifting in the wind
while the white dress clings to her
like an artic flag,
basking in the fine hour

She looks up and sees the snow falling
down her face and hands
And she searches for warmth, her arms stretched
toward the frost-bitten sky

Slowly dancing and spinning
Following her own rhythm
A silent poinsettia garden, blooming
Tracing the shape of her tender smile
That was warm in the midst of winter

About an abandoned city,
where the wind is the only inhabitant,
knocking on windows and singing
through the empty streets.

bless the wind that brings you a sickness
he only wishes to bring you a smell and a taste
of faraway lands and of faraway times
he wishes not to bring you this dread hiemal curse
only caress and embrace passers-by on his unending route
it is of love, not of hate that the wind makes it so
do not fault him, but bless him
the wind and his curse,
and love him for love is the only thing true
bless him, the traveler, leave a song in his current
and a kiss in his unending route
love and bless the wind that brings you such fine things as these
love and bless the wind and forgive his disease

In the morning wind

my thoughts are tinkling clearly --


like a carillon.

when the wind whistles through,
poking, prodding,
doesn't even see
every minor infraction, even after plentiful inspection
in that it has touched me more than anyone,
has known which direction it would blow my hair
in that in no time has it made assumptions
nor presumed
only moved
about with a firm motion.
that just the other day, anger had gotten the best of me,
wishing the wind would stop reminding me of my existence
in that the bitter cold reminded me of every thought
that had been digging at the surface of my skin
and the wind did not know that i had not wanted
to be understood
in that moment.

i desired to be misunderstood,
a presence as unkempt,
as thoughtless, yet tender,
yet warm,
yet violent,
yet soft,
being able to know
the depth of someone's skin—their hair that stands on edge,
each scar and all its painful attachment,
each memory they've kept hidden,
that for some reason stay dancing on top;
and i stayed dancing
as the wind whistled
and
told me of my reasons
and didn't laugh
at a single one.