To Whom'

Funny how the wind blows,
Shapes Natures features,
Be it tree or mountain,
Or even little creatures.
Be it a poet or critic,
Who can't bear a point,
Drinking in their own salve- potion,
Their soul to anoint.
Sigh,
Like the breeze shaking heads of trees,
Challenging them to shed
Some of their out of date leaves.
Wow,
When enlightenment finally comes,
Funny how the wind blows,
All that's left are crumbs.