Zephyr, vapor, whatever its name,
It flies through and weaves the horse's mane;
Lifts the flag and makes it proud,
For sailors, it's the energy in the shroud.
Wind dances, it flings itself casually,
Then brusquely, about.
It flips, it floats, it shouts.
The clothes on the line twist and snap,
Swirling leaves make the dog jump up;
It's old age in the woods, leaves darting,
Mixing, spinning, and havocking.
Wind's the measure of the sky,
A full cup, and it opens and spills,
It tips the hammock this way and that,
Upsetting the paper and flinging away the hat;
Turning the puddle to ripples,
Blowing the clouds into reels and stipples.
Wind dies down, wind flies up, wind lies flat,
Timing the seconds as they go by.