The Wind Poem by john coldwell

The arctic blasts turn men into plaster casts,
They take the shape of the wind.
The ragged sails lashed by the gales,
Are full of the the shape of the wind.

The shrewd and wise, with half closed eyes,
Can guess the way of the wind.
They bend and bow, and go with the flow,
They take the shape of the wind.

The evening fires make crooked spires,
As they give way to the shape of the wind.
My ice cold breath meets it’s sudden death,
As it takes the shape of the wind.

And all our life, with all it’s strife,
Is nought but the shape of the wind.
So no longer resist, just desist,
And accept the shape of the wind.