Wind

by Cecelia Ann Harris

Wind winds itself around my door

With a muffled, rushing, whining roar

And whirls itself among the trees,

Collecting dust and brittled leaves,

Depositing them in cornered lots

And other bare, unnoticed spots.

Sometimes a wind runs through my mind

Collecting all the dirt and grime

Accumulated there and whisks it away

Until sometime when my thoughts should stray

I’ll find it again, and try to recall

How it ever entered my mind at all.