Parables of the Wind: Part I

The scratching at my cheeks grows thick
And red summoned on their plain
Does little to protect the raw
That round my presence seems to stick,
Governed by some physics law,
Where the exposed will tend to stain.

The faster gusts, my paces quick,
Though in it I have naught to gain.
She pushes me with her guffaw
To whatever on me she can nick.
She snakes to find a mortal flaw,
She persists on me without refrain.

Oh, her free will has made me sick!
She makes cold rubble out of grain,
She turns the flora into straw,
She satirizes each new chick.
Yet just as the blackbirds need their caw,
From her purpose she won’t abstain.

In this existence did she pick
To plant in nature so much pain?
Did she request to have her jaw?
Yet she is subject to the flick
And scratch of a large, unseen claw.
She dissipates, but I remain.

Unpublished Material, © 2010 Cali Digre