The Wind

And the wind, buffeting wind,

The wind that tears and grinds upon the wild places

The wind that smirks at the oak and the beech and the hickory

The wind that laughs in its freedom and strength and they feel

As it pulls at their roots and their branches and their green leaves.

Crashing around the victims are heard.  Dark and storm conceal them but

The violence of their destruction rings out,

Blocking off the mind, filling the vision,

Making the crashing and the destruction seem the only view left.

...but though there is some crashing, though it feels forlorn and dark and horrid,

The Elm and the Sweet Gum and the Oak take feeble heart

They hold their breath against the smirking wind and they know that

Though it tears and rends and holds its sway,

Though it pulls and its torrents shake them, buffet them…

They need but bend and hold their roots to the deep soil

The morning will come and the wind, with naught to hold it here, will blow away

And the Oak and the Beech and the Elm will sigh and it will be

A memory in the sunshine and dewy morning