A Gentle Breeze
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It begins as a gentle breeze
that rustles the leaves with its touch.
Scurrying through the tops of trees,
it begins as a gentle breeze.
Not enough to discourage bees,
it is only brisk; it isn't much.
It begins as a gentle breeze
that rustles the leaves with its touch.
It is only brisk; it isn't much,
until that breeze begins to gust.
And yet, birds still escape its clutch;
it is only brisk; it isn't much.
It topples garbage cans and such,
gathering up a cloud of dust.
It is only brisk; it isn't much,
until that breeze begins to gust.
Gathering up a cloud of dust,
that soon blocks the Sun's sullied light.
And proceeds, with increasing thrust;
gathering up a cloud of dust.
When the sky turns orangey rust,
twirling tornadoes evoke fright.
Gathering up a cloud of dust,
that soon blocks the Sun's sullied light.
Twirling tornadoes evoke fright,
with debris flying through the air.
Morphing into objects of might,
twirling tornadoes evoke fright.
Finding cover, we hang on tight,
for flying shrapnel packs a scare.
Twirling tornadoes evoke fright,
with debris flying through the air.
Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2015
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