Shaking My Fist at the Wind

The wind has not loved me, never has, old particulate father, busy body. He’s in my blind face alright. With his extravagant liquors. His jeweler’s brush. Bragging he has no material possessions. My numb friend. Telling me how futile are my necessary green mortal hopes. Once, on the big lake, I shook my first at him. Told him to stay away from my shadow. Said I was happy with my shameful life. I fought him off alright. But wind has all the chips. Knows when we encounter the approach of twilight we’ll ache for his lullaby for we fear the leaden dusk. Consolations from the heartless are better than none.

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