I’ve never felt the need to feed the wind; nor understood it’s want to tear the houses down. Then pick among the timbers for a beam to clean its teeth and belch with satisfaction at its meal.
It warns with whispers ruffling leaves that dance from tree to tree, just like a chorus line on some great Broadway stage. Orchestrated to crescendo, whirling round the naked actor as others watch and wait their turn to clap at curtain-fall.
But sometimes on the stage a man can find a rose beyond the blowing, past the blowhard critics and the mighty wind machines wound down. He’ll stoop and pick it up, not mind the thorns to clutch it tight, and head hung, exit stage into the night. He’ll find a place to rest within the woodpile of his home and tomorrow dress to perform the matinee.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology