I am the Wind

The stream under me is

blue and sparkling and cool,

but cuts like a hard blade

between the mossy banks.

Flowers are anchored securely

along the sweet, cold 

running water.

I brush them 

with long, gentle fingers.

Make them sway, like

sea grass in a warm current.

I veer away

from the glittering stream,

towards cool shadows

and sunlight

filtering green through oak leaves

the color of emeralds.

Golden sunshine 

touches the forest floor

not quite golden anymore,

but always lovely.

A little chestnut-haired boy

is curled up, sleeping

on a cushion, on a bench,

outside

in his mother's garden.

His tiny hands

are balled up into fists, as though 

he suffers

a nightmare.

I creep up silently

as a stalking panther

and play with that soft hair

that curls

like the hair of a

painted cherub.

When I leave,

the boy

is smiling.

A girl with hair like

a raven's wing

and eyes

as dark as a starless night

is sitting on her front porch

under the shadow

of a striped overhang.

Working.

She's chewing the end of her pencil,

frowning,

a book open on her knee.

Her hands rest on piles of papers.

I reach over as I pass,

snag a few sheets,

and keep going.

They're covered in elegant,

slanting script.

Good.

She'll miss these.

I laugh.

I breeze into a small town,

stronger now,

never pausing

even when I knock

fire

into a house,

and the flames rear up

like red and gold monsters

behind me.

Not even when a woman in the house

screams;

she'll get out,

probably.

I have carried rain 

to the starving crops

of starving families

and I have smashed

fishermen's boats

into jagged cliffs.

I have played with children

in flower gardens

and flown in the heart

of vicious storms.

I am the icy hand

that carries snow in 

through your open doorway

in the winter,

and the cool touch

on your forehead

after you've run

a thousand miles

into a burning sunset.

You cannot catch me,

enslave me,

tame me.

I am the wind.

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