Bend and cower from the wind.
Its Winter howling is incessant.
Its cold all pervasive.
The mountain side Bearberry brambles
Grip tightly to the glacier scarred rocks for safety as the wind
Flows in rivers of the sky
From the White Mountains to the sea.
It feels its way with outstretched arms
Solid and real, over a
Path that is well worn and familiar into the valleys
And river beds along the way.
The power of the wind pushes the sound of thunder ahead of it
And Carries the storm clouds on its back.
It washes over the landscape
In partnership with the trees.
It is a force that can move them to dance,
Shake them to their roots, and love them with its allover touch.
Mountains and trees diminish the wind.
They sap its strength with their reluctance to let it go.
They want to hold on, to experience its freedom and lightness
They yearn for a chance to throw off their earthly chains and soar above the land.
But in the end, at the last, the sea is the master leaving
The wind no choice but to rush into its out-stretched arms, to be consumed by the waves,
To become one with the spray, white with its foam,
And in the crashing of the wind powered waves on the shore,
Release its energy back into the realm from which it came,
Completely the cycle once again.