Gust...

She flaunted herself amongst the leaves,
They, dazed in the graze of her hair...
She held a warmth of purity to touch,
Yet, cool beyond fathom as much.
She wove tender dreams,
for those in slumber, by her sweetness
And enchanted the rest with,
Breaths of breathlessness...

Nay she cannot be captured,
Nor be forced under will,
For shall she flow soft,
As a slow embrace, warm and then wither away.
She returns pious and prayerful,
Noble and gaunt,
Jolly and juvenile,
Yet rough and relentless.
She cureth all , cuddle and caress,
Yet shall she in her wrath, rogue the sea,
Leave no dexterity...
And yet, shall she be,
An angel in a moth's life in paradise,
A tear of memories in an old man's eyes,
A whiff of anger amongst caring men,
A reason, an omnipresence
And yet sometimes, a mere vibe of existence...

They call her the wind,
I called her, Love....