Francesca Martin Poetry

The wind is a lost soul
And it swings on the porch chair
Swims in the lake
Climbs to the top of the tree
In a queer silence that causes us to stare
But at times it tears through our chilled bones
Howling through tunnels
Making even the rain fall out of place
Leaving only remnants of memories
And occasionally
With a brush on the shoulder
We recognize our lost soul

Poet: Francesca Martin