The Wind Farm
Down the hill
they raise little breezes, and
let them go free every morning.
These growing aires hustle
climb the fresh trees and rustle
and our delicate spring blooms
their petals jiggle like bangles
and there's cherry petal rain
branches bent at all angles
in the sort of, well, angry air
The wind is farming now
digging up the dirt
flinging it down
a tornado - mile and a half wide
which takes out ten towns
in a few minutes time.
(Pat Robertson might opine
they were sinning online.)
Without regret or confession,
make this simple concession:
The wind doesn't know your name.
The wind just blows.- Mar "Mistryel" Walker
I am having a rhyme problem O dear. Can't believe I have come this far 29 days, 29 poems..... only one more to go....
PROMPT: find words from news paper headlines