He Hated The Wind

He hated the wind It made him superstitious How it carried things away, on whim With a certain disarray, of sound He howled back at the wind With fear behind his eyes But it backed him into corners Attacked by stealth, and surprise He sensed armies of dead spirits Crept upon him, just to seize But now age came more steadily And overpowered, with disease Please bury him where no wind will blow And bend the bough, beneath the breeze Prepare the plot with the softest dirt To comfort old bones, with final ease (For Bear, who died today)