Well Versed In The Weather

Last night:
My windsock ran away
Almost,
Finally succumbing to the call of the wildwind,
A call often heard, a siren's song.

Being a child of the wind
I have often been pulled by a gale
To leave the confines I call home.

Being a child of the wind
The sock released its grip from the eve hook
Falling into the arms of Mother Gale.

It left last night
When the wind raged
Tearing clouds to fluttering rags
Of fleeing flannel, white and grey,
But did not go far.

I found it in the grasp of the blackberry bush
Nabbed in mid-flight by the long arm
Of the laws of gravity and motion.
Its brief life as a fugitive
Ended
Wet, soiled, a little tattered,
Forlorn, confined, a little sad.

I, however, was joyed to find it
Close to home for I love
To watch it change expression
With the unseen wind.

Writhing, twisting, spinning.
Jumps — double, triple, even a quad.
Left — Right
South — North
Back — Away
Leaping, dancing, a pirouette.

I sympathize too,
For I have my hook
Which binds me.
Though I twist and turn
Spin and writhe
Leap and dance,
Longing to go nowhere in particular
But to follow the gale's whim.

I too stay; I cannot cut my line.