The Breeze

The breeze flows softly through the air with help
From clouds that glow in sunlight's shining tone.
The breeze turns to a wind, a howl, a yelp;
Forsaking fowl, as feathered creatures moan.
The forests weep and cry for winds to stop.
The leaves are beat and crushed beneath the beast
That lurks and creeps in search of seeds to drop.
The wind, the cry, that fights the world when 'tis released.
Not always is the breeze so cruel to earth;
Not always does it turn the dirt to sky.
On some sweet nights it acts with cheer and mirth;
On some sweet nights it sails the clouds on high -
Above the world where wind is needed, Where
the people hope and wish to touch the air.

-Phil