Winter Wind

I have little to say about this poem, except that it's about the wind, which was probably gathered from the title.
After reading so much poetry, I've found that every poet feels the need to write a poem about the wind. Or I don't know, maybe I just read a lot of weather-related poems. Either way, I decided to give it a shot.


Winter wind,

through the air,

through you hair,

sneaking under doors,

and through open windows

and naked trees.


Tossing trash,

littering the streets.

Rattling windows and drainpipes

and shaking buildings.


Coming home

with “wind-swept” hair,

cold fingers,

and red cheeks.

Bitter cold

vanishes inside.


The winter wind.

Cold and destructive,

is only it’s mask.

Stop and listen.

The wind whistles,

and sings songs from the past.

And it whispers.

Whispers the secrets of the world.



Listen to the wind.

Listen to the world.


The End

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