West Wind

still whispers, a gentle wind, a gentle calling, a gentle cry
without understanding it's offering or reasoning,
it sways her stomach forcing down spoonfuls of ginger ale
to ease ailment and mend a mind

with an early spring comes rain, hoping it will ease the pain
where she will dance inside a primavera painting
as the fervid and whimsical child once known not so long ago

when the west wind first picked her up and wrapped her delicately
and shielded her from the jaded weapons of cruelty and reality
where she can crawl again under a pile of cherry blossoms
and tremble securely

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

Written 02/25/2010 3:41 am est
poem revised 02/25/2010 7:38 am est