“Wind,” Friend, Mar. 1972, 39
The wind is searching for something somewhere—
Where grasses bend low and where rocks are bare.
Where houses stand strong to shoulder him high,
The blustering wind explores earth and sky.
His fingers go probing in crannies and crooks,
Along window panes, and down chimney nooks.
From deep in the gutter to high in the steeple,
He often balloons out the clothes of the people.
He puffs at the small things and moves them away
And rattles the loose ones and makes the trees sway.
But no matter his blowing, no matter his speed,
Or his huffing and roughing of flower and weed,
He never can find what he seeks—and I wonder,
Is it something as eerie as lightning and thunder?
There’s no way to tell and there’s no way of knowing,
But still he keeps searching and puffing and blowing.