The Wind Poem by Rich Harney

Standing frigid, my night of frost,
For death and hell, I'm blithely tossed,
Wind releasing it's brazen brow,
You'd think it had me marked somehow.


It spat it's worst and trembled in
An unrelenting glimpse of sin,
To break the frozen songs of bones,
The wind, the wind, it's vicious tones.

But then as if the north cried— stop!
A gale to fear, a cold tear drop
Became the wind —a softer still
Pray now, I'm quiet heart until….

The wind again, it's steady rise
Devouring, it eats the skies.
Too, will try and trouble me ‘gain
Only love will carry me then.