I had taken a walk this morning through the neighborhood and could smell someone cooking a late Breakfast or Brunch. I could hear the ringing of a hammer on an anvil as the gentleman across the way was working on a new knife using his forge. That is a distinctive ring and from a distance it is as soothing as a rain on a metal roof. Slow rhythmic rings.

As I arrived back at the house I was struck by the strange sight of grass that needs to be cut. This is February and I need to cut grass? To say this has been a mild Winter for us would be understating it.

As the Sun was setting tonight I was thinking of what a great Saturday this has been. I didn’t go anywhere and just stood on the deck and soaked in a perfect day of clear blue skies and a breeze that was steady and cool. I think the high was about 70F and the breeze became a wind at times around 12-15 mph. Trees swaying and leaves blowing about reminded me of a poem I wrote some time ago and will leave it here for others to enjoy.

But the day draws to a close now and it’s time to settle into other activities inside.

Comments welcome,

The Wind

The wind blows freely across the way, it has no boundaries set…
Sometimes it’s warm, sometimes it’s cold, sometimes it can feel wet.
It plays on days when the sun is out, it dances between the trees…
It flows and blows, and drafts on by, only seen by moving leaves.

It must have life, for all the sounds, it makes when passing by…
A screaming gale, a moaning wail, and then the softest sighs.
It plays with things, that lay about, left by you and me…
But when we look, it drops them down, does it do this just to tease?

The rain and dust, to most of us, can be a mess some days…
But to the wind, they’re like a friend, and many times they play.
I’ve seen the dust play in the yard, and then there comes the rain…
I listen to it calling me, tapping softly on my pane.

It has to know so much of us, as much as it’s around…
But it keeps its distance most the time, in the trees above the ground.
Like a child at play, it makes them sway, they remind us of a time…
When mothers dear, would hold us near, and rock to nursery rhymes.

©  Ron Walker October 1999

From Ron’s Poems Amazon