Rush of Wind
When the wind comes sweeping down the vale
Russling leaf and limb
Swirling about the filed of flowers
And wheat tops tall and thin,
I often stand in awe of intangible touch
The wind I cannot see
But how it seems to rush
The sleepy little vale seems to come alive
As the wind keeps rushing
An impression of color sweeps by,
And as a moving canvas
The colors bleed and blend;
A moving Monet, copied by the wind.
O’Prunty ©
5/27/15
If you enjoyed the poem. please leave a comment.