I'm wondering where the wind blows.

Does it flow all around, like a river of air,

Encircling all and everything it sees?

Or does it blow right through,

Opening you up to endless possibilities?

I wonder why it's so flighty,

Whispering secrets of the earth and sky

In your ear one minute, and

Whirling around, a devilish maelstrom the next.

The wind is a mischievous thing.

It tickles and caresses, fondles and coddles,

Until it's fickleness overrules, and

You, the discarded play thing, are blown away.

Like a small child, the wind is kind,

Innocent and true, bringing you sweet

Temptations from areas around the world,

Carrying ambrosial tidings of summer.

But, also like a small child, the wind is cruel,

Teasing, it's jaded fingers pulling down the shingles,

Uprooting all the trees, and demolishing lives.

Fluctuating, oscillating, moody as well,

The wind reminds me of us.