PASSING STORM

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.

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