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Rated: E · Poetry · Nature · #2048015
I love the wind. To me she is a playful or wicked sprite, beckoning me.
The Wind

I hear her in the dark.
Her siren song
soft as a lullabye.
From the window
I watch her stir the trees;
branches like crooked fingers
beckoning.

Come to me.

She grows impatient;
Whistles turn to moans.
She calls
down the chimney
shuffling the embers.

Come and play!

Grabbing at my skirt;
flicking my hair as I open
the door;
Her song
a harmony of welcome
with the rain.
She enfolds me in
a cool embrace
and kisses my cheek.











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