Sweeping down the lane carelessly and without yield,
Comes the wind, swirling, tumbling, full of blight,
In blue-hued gusts just like Van Gogh’s “Starry Night”,
And driving the clouds on like his “Cypress and Wheatfield”.
The people on the street bend their heads down low,
Trying to protect their vulnerable skin from irritation.
But the wind doesn’t notice and continues to blow,
Bringing objects into levitation.
Newspapers, over turned cups, and wrappers to sweets
Spin round and round, slow dancing with the shoppers,
Bring even more life to the always bustling Main Street,
Overturning the static scene of prim and proper.
Ducking into stores and places to eat as a safe haven,
The refugees gather together emanating a warmth and calm.
And I remain outside standing and watching these cravens,
Sister to the wind and a slave to its balm.
I skip over the debris and frolic past the crammed shops,
Where eyes from the windows reflect chagrin stares.
I return again once I’ve reached the top,
Bringing with me the energetic, fluid air.
It delights in my reverie against convention and class,
My jovial and blithe belief in just being free,
As obvious and perplexing as Van Gogh’s “Clumps of Grass”,
Yet as beautiful as his “Blossoming Almond Tree”.
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Celebrating a Windy Day