Winds like to touch green foliage and to shake them hard,
spraying morning dews that drip down from tall grasses,
as a rainbow bridges across the early light
and screens of dense fog disperse from the blur of sight.
Winds like to blow earth dusts and to twist them around,
vaporizing warm seawater into drifted clouds,
formulating tornadoes as the mother nature’s wrath
that destroy human lives and their belongings on her path.
Winds like to lift up and along the ridges,
entering caves through caverns to create new tunes of music
or hurdling above evergreens on the mountaintop
and chasing the skiers’ downhill on the slopes.
Winds like to sail over the tides to the boundless far away,
curling white-capped waves with gales in stormy days
or to caress smooth skins of happy lovers and to mend
broken-hearted with fresh breezes in the end.