The wind has an edge.

The wind has an edge.

Cutting to the bone

Blowing petals from flowers

Throwing posies

Shocking pink blossom

Chasing over the ground

Forming fluffy drifts

Spinning, in a wild river dance

Churned into tiny tornadoes

Broken-hearted bouquets

Lost to romance.

Bees bumble blindly from one

Naked head to the other

Magnolias are stripped of floribunda

There is no love in the air

The wind is cold and selfish

Too full of itself

To worry about its effect

Plucking at shirt collars

Tugging at sleeves

Shaking the tiles from old rooves

Shrieking in delight

As a tree comes down

Too old to hold on

And just like that

I lose my hat

An umbrella turns inside out

I worry about Mary Poppins

And feeding the birds

Magpies don’t count

They are clever enough.

Though newborns

Are at risk

As branches duck and dive

There is no logic to it

It has no agency

Whatever we might conceive.

It has no motive

The wind just is

No matter what

We do or say

It will only blow itself out

When it is good and ready.