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Frank Smith Poem
What is the wind?
The wind is a strange and fickle thing.
It's capers keep us guessing.
It loves and it hates, it gives and takes.
It's a curse, also a blessing.
The wind is a ghost that haunts the night,
And wakes me with it's sobbing.
It rattles it's chains, taps on my door,
And sets my poor heart throbbing.
The wind is a voice from long ago,
Old dreams, old vows recalling.
Again it's soft fingers touch my cheek
Like teardrops gently falling.
The wind is a beast that rides the storm
It's vicious power enjoying.
It tramples our homes, lays waste our land.
Man's future hopes destroying.
The wind is a puzzle none can solve,
It's far beyond our knowing.
God has the answer have no doubt,
Just pray it keeps on blowing.
Copyright © Frank Smith | Year Posted 2011
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