Diane Webster, July 2013


I hear wind in wind chimes
and quaking aspen leaves.
I see pinwheels spin
a kaleidoscope blur
and escapee plastic bags
mime white balloons
higher, higher, gone
or tumble half deflated
like a drunk against the curb.
I smell the stockyard across town
or know rain plunges toward earth
as scent precedes arrival.
My cheek feels the gentle breeze
as a lover leans close for a kiss,
and I taste the ocean’s salty secrets
wave after wave as I face the horizon
knowing wind fills my world
by sense alone or by faith.

Promote. Poetry.
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