Glorious Flight

The wind it whistles wild and bold, Blossoms tumble with its force. And daffodils bend their heads of gold, As off it travels on its course. With power it holds all in its sway, The trees they stand so strong and tall, But even their branches have to obey, This turbulent unrelenting squall. You sense it in a petal's fall, And in the compression of the grass. Yet you don't see the wind at all, Invisible. Though you feel it pass. It can be gentle for a spell, With soft carresses, soothing, cool. But once enraged, it's hard to quell, And has its own established rule. Depending on its strength and might, All things are submissive to its will. The wind in all its glorious flight, Is something, we can never still. © Ernestine Northover