Leaves flicker idly shaken by a small bird
Beating its wings to fly on a windless day,
Reflections in the pond are strangely clear
With no distortion on the limpid surface

So with the deep-the sails hang lifeless
Shorn of the gusts to tighten and tense the masts
No gulls to cry soaring on rising air
And all is strangely silent though expectant

But when the roar of waves and shrieking rigging
Replaces calm the sailors stir and waken
To keep their frail craft on the tortured surface
On which the greatest of the liners roll.

No man has seen the wind though the deaf perceive it
And the blind feel it caressing cheeks and hands
The elemental force that lifts the planes to flight
And spreads the tiny seeds to populate the forests.

Wind’s evidence is all we see and hear
Watching the snowflake, the sand, the driving rain
Hiding from the fierce tornado’s path
Twisting its way like a mighty spinning top.

Yet there is other wind that music brings
Lungfulls of effort to make the bugles call
To fill the bagpipes with its mournful wail
And the tin whistle with its reedy notes.

The power of our speech and language is so born
From tiny gusts of air through mouth and tongue
We do well to ponder its potential power
To build or wreck the fragile human scene.

As with the wind the spirit’s hidden guise
Brings only evidence to those who seek
But is all around us and within
Waiting for open doors and willing hearts and minds.

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