The wind had its way with me
gusting like campfire smoke,
lifting the edges of my shirt,
pushing me with direction. My feet
concede to half steps, like a child
walking up stairs. I attempt to brace
my position like a human redoubt while
yielding a few paces. I turn sideways,
reducing for a moment the task upon me.
My hair lifts up like a hundred thin
rockets preparing to depart for the unknown.
A few cartwheeling leaves strike my face
like bees exacting out revenge. I stagger
a few steps, placing myself behind a tree.
The wind howls as if angry for leaving its
path. I remain here for the storm to pass,
as it always does.
Roger Singer 