Windy Ridge Living.
Gushing, as suddenly breeze turns to spite
And spits rain, here, once again unremitting,
A precursor to dour grey, it looks quite
Stormy. As prelude befitting, I sit
Here measuring life at the top. Gale approaches,
Which will bellow and blow fiercely, then stop.
Then as soon as rock feels sun, I will broach
The subject of warmth. Rain or not, mocking
At blow, rock, secretly like me, loves free
Spirited air, which daringly changes
It's face at will. Amazingly this windy
Ridge has survived vagaries like danger
From capricious winds, and so have I, life
Here has to be faced full on and mightily.
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Comments about this poem (Windy Ridge Living. by Fay Slimm )
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