Wind Painter
Figuring out how
to paint the wind,
flying alone,
with both wings pinned.
It is all there
and yet it's not.
Bites me cold,
soothes me hot.
At times a highway
for birds to use.
Always a byway
of olfactory clues.
Whispers in my ear,
then shouts out loud.
Plays tricks on the eyes,
while pushing clouds.
Oaks and maples
dance in its embrace.
Challenging a duel,
it slaps me in the face.
Giving the grasses
a movement so watery,
What's taken away,
random as lottery.
The wind alters
what it touches.
Releasing habits
from firm clutches.
Returns again
an ocean wave,
Turning up,
churning up
hopes we save.