Eighth Floor Poem by RoseAnn V. Shawiak

Windsock of my mind is blowing in all directions,
catching every breeze and gust of wind.

Playing with the moving air, letting it twist and
spin all through my hair.

Loving the way it travels across ground, blowing
leaves and papers everyway, contrary to where they
should be going.

Palm tree tops waving to and fro, shaking the dust
from their hair fronds, begging to be left alone
to grow.

Wind swirling into the sky, crashing dirt and dust
particles into this eighth floor window just because
it knows it can.