The wind had been blowing, but it had ceased.
It had been the spring wind, full of freshness and vigor.
A touch of shivering came with him,
like he had just left the face of a glacier.
He blew the newly blossoming tree limbs about,
before he rushed to tickle the robins feathers,
and the bending tulip heads.
He had played with the spattering raindrops,
and had pushed the big fluffy clouds all around the sky.
It was not the summer wind, his kissing cousin.
Not the warm, mellow caressing wind,
that touches cheeks
and cools the brow.
Nor the hot, thick, crackling wind
that accompanies summer lightening and thunder.
Summer wind is she who wears two faces,
both of beauty.
Neither, this was not the autumn wind,
the mournful cousin full of sighs,
decay and departure.
She who moans and blows the leaves,
around ankles and across the marshland,
blowing out our summer memories.
Autumn wind blows in only to be banished
by the fiercest one,
the winter wind,
the blustery male of the family.
This is not he that huffs and puffs,
that shrieks and pounds on doors
The one that races through cracks and chinks
to bite noses and toes,
and send sparks skyward.
Winter wind blows rain and snow and sleet,
and holds sway much too long,
never wanting to let go,
to make room for the spring wind,
the youngest of the family.
Yes, this is he, the spring wind, who
like a child encourages
us to put up our kites
for it to play with and to dash against
trees or into the ground.
Spring wind rushes faster than any other,
blowing himself all out,
so he can cease like now
when it's time to go to bed,
to rest against the frozen sparkles
of a spring night.