Awe Gusts

The wind starts blowing.
It comes slowly
pulling the cold, northern air down with it.
At first glance, it’s only a glimmer of green,
a flickering light in the leaves,
a cool relief, drying your shirt.
You step out of the shade.

The wind keeps blowing.
It moves steady
pulling the blunt, brisk air along with it.
Red trees shake, sounding louder now
as the paper-dry sheets scratch and spark,
falling to crunch under shoes.
You seek out warm light.

Awesome gusts now
blast fast past
bare branches; leaving little behind.
Transparent forests stand silent.
Only the air whines and cracks,
whipping its way around.
You wait to start fresh.

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2 Responses to Awe Gusts

  1. Mel A Rowe says:

    love the line, “…as the paper-dry sheets scratch and spark….” reminds me of long summers at home.
    What a beautifully visual piece (*applauds)

  2. mitchtoews says:

    Wonderful poem. Thank you for your writing.

    I love the wind and study it.

    Doughy. Clumsy. Wicked strong, the wind skips along the land and across the water in giant, mishapen, velcro-skinned blobs. Like the unpopular, ambitious and too-earnest, Chris Farley-lookin guy at work, the wind tries to stick to everything it touches. But, invariably, it just keeps tumbling along because that is its true nature.

    Leaving makes the wind sad, but if it stops moving, it dies.

    That is a shitty set of scrabble letters. Trust me on this.

    Cheers – m

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