WHO?

Copyright (c) 2020 by Randall R. Peterson ALL RIGHTS RESERVED This is a work of fiction. All persons, locations and actions are from the author's imagination or have been used in a fictitious manner.

By R. Peterson

I’m no stranger to this town … I’ve been here many times before.

I’ve broken windows, battered trees … and opened every unlatched door.

Most call me nameless trouble … so few who call me friend.

I’ve stolen sheets from drying lines … and torn them end to end.

My name is spoken harshly … by vile and twisted tongue.

If only given one more chance … for every bell I’ve rung.

I fall in love in winter … with spring I have a fling.

Summer’s captured broken hearts … in fall to scatter is my thing.

I’ve stolen hats from gentlemen … mayors, thieves and crooks.

Burst my way into your schools … smashed blackboards, taken books.

I lurk behind tall busses … a vile and nasty storm.

Reaching under dresses … with hands so seldom warm.

The coppers they do fear me … no cuffs can bind my hand.

I spit loud music everywhere … a tuneless blowing band.

The sound of snow’s destruction … a record on the move.

I broadcast mud and spackle … I fill up every groove.

They’ve cursed my name with vengeance … and shook their fists with scorn.

I’ve ravaged pristine farmlands … and flattened rows of corn.

I shake shutters in the night … I bang gates for fun.

I’ve licked the frost from garden rows … and wet them with my tongue.

No man has ever seen me … no woman can describe.

The length and color of my hair … the texture of my hide.

I’m no stranger to this town … to many I have sinned.

I won’t answer any phone … but you can call me wind.