The Winding Of The Whispering Wind Poem by Denis Martindale

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Behold the essence that remains, as I go on my way,
The bending twigs, as each tree strains, upon the ground to stay,
And raindrops falling, left to right, instead of dropping down,
And dark clouds gliding, day and night, that wander town to town.

I am the whisper, and the howl, and every sound between,
Beyond the cooing dove and owl, that Man has heard and seen,
I am the breeze. I am the storm. My power passing through,
The essence of both cold and warm when felt surrounding you.

And think of seeds migrating still, to other homes to live,
For I transport them by God's will to places God will give,
Yet every breath Mankind has known I brought to you each hour,
Then blessed you so that you have grown, just as I blessed each flower.

And thus to me, you owe a debt, a thank-you now and then,
As proof of grace, not to forget, that God bestows on men,
To serve Him is my great reward, until, I, too, must die,
A trusted servant of the Lord, like angels flying high.


Denis Martindale. April 2021.