The Puppeteer

Wind blows the year around

in a circle.

Wind catches us moving too fast

and pulls us back,

Moving cautious, urges forward.

Breeze in Spring and Summer,

Force for the falling and the slow rising.

Wind chasing its tail,

Ruffling the leaves as a mother to a small child with a new discovery held in the hand.

Dancing of the shadows as the puppeteer flits on

to another tree, to a different audience, or to none at all.