The wind is a bus Going here then there Carries limitless Things of many shapes. Plastic shopping bags Soon to be snagged By the naked trees. Fallen autumn leaves Doing somersaults Down the barren path. Dandelion seeds Like little balloons Up to touch the sky. And what of those clouds That bring needed rain Or hide the bright sun. But the greatest joys That the bus does bring Are those we can’t see: The scent of fresh baked Apple pie cooling On the window sill, The soft wavering Coming from the field Of gold colored hay. But greatest of all After summer’s rain The slow flowing scent Of sweet lavender. It is my desire The bus to idle And stay awhile.
The wind like a sweeping broom Wish, swish, rattling every dish Providing sounds of looming doom Clouds so fearful begin to weep What object to overcome such gloom? Every given answer is “Not I.” Even the voices from the tomb Yield for fear to be exhumed Through the day all stayed at bay Allowing the wind to have its way Finally comes the end of day Now above their many heads They take notice of the full moon Gleaming bright with a silly grin Taking control of what’s below Giving an eye to the nasty wind Which falls softly as a lamb All is quiet in this night It is now time under the covers That all heads shall be out of sight