by ktarcus

Created on: April 28, 2008

Wind.

Whistling howling tearing of trees,
brings of the warrior down to his knees.
Makes fighting for honour a thing of the past,
with just one long loud near freezing blast.

What, may you ask shall make them recind,
none other than the mother of all the north wind.
Born in the arctic no chance of recall,
gathering speed soon all men will fall.

And yet from the west a warming will bring,
Some times of the east will make a heart sing.
But southerly sure to bring forth the flower,
revitalise love in the space of an hour.

May the wind in your heart forever be,
as warming as your smile becomes to me.

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