Rising and Falling Wind
Whispering secrets bush to bush, limb to limb,
Picking up bits of paper,
Whipping them into a storm.
Sometimes a storm is a tornado,
Blowing shingles off roofs.
Others, gentler than a slight breeze,
Creeping in between the branches of trees,
Rustling the long twisted boughs,
Lifting the scattered leaves,
Allowing your imagination to soar.