A cliched wind howls, or roars, or whines, or whistles, or moans. This is no cliched wind. It is a restless wind. We lie down at night to rest; this wind lay down as darkness settled. But a restless wind it is, and in the wee hours it was up and stirring about, shaking and rocking the house like some giant child playing with blocks in a sandbox.
So a restless night for us and the wind, but morning finally came. And so did more wind. The horse that just flew by was not Pegasus, but the neighboring farmer's Old Dan. That's not right.
The wind doth howl, the wind doth moan, the wind doth have a mind of its own.
The wind doth whistle, the wind doth whine, the wind doth carry sand so fine.
It howls, it roars, it shakes the doors
The wind doth carry horses, slim and fat. It is too much wind, for all of that.
Stop! Thou vicious wind, forsake my door. We don't need you anymore.
© 2012 David W. Lacy
3 comments:
Very well said about this ferocious weind we've had. I've never like the wind, even when I was little.
Did you write that little poem? Well Done! I love the wind ...
Shelly, it did get to be a bit much, didn't it?
Grace, yes, I did. Thank you. I like wind to a point: above 75 degrees, below 25 mph, maybe an occasional gust. It was out of bounds here this week, but we're okay now.
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