wind blows

cross desert

sweeping dunes

and rain forest

swaying canopy

through sugar maples

running sap

and balboas

waiting for rain

whistles against

winter windows

in Mongolia

and Nunavut

lifts kites as birds in


and Gros Morne

same breeze that

launches dandelion parachutes

ruffles wildflowers

a thousand miles away

wind I feel

whipping hair

against my face

has sculptured

the Himalayas

carved canyons

and fluttered sheets

on laundry lines






I like first person narratives.

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