Tuesday, May 1, 2012


(An Acrostic)

Sullen clouds build up and up into a mighty tower;
Thunder echoes distantly, rumbling its power.
Overhead the blueness falters, weakening on high.
Rain, in great fat globules, drops out of the sky.
Mighty slashes of lightning rend the heated air.
Storms have a way of telling us that Thor is still up there.

        Florence Edith Storer

(A poem for Children)

The wind is always blowing and blowing,
When it is rainy and when it is snowing,
It's always to-ing and always fro-ing
But where is it going? Where is it going?
Where does it end as it goes on its way,
Over the mountains and over the bay,
The wind has a voice but I don't hear it say
'I'm going to so-and-so country today.'
It comes to the trees and goes over the top,
Over the houses and over the shop,
And some people say that the wind likes to 'drop'
But where does it stop? Where does it stop?
Does the wind have a map we can't ever see?
Does the gnat know the answer, the bird and the bee?
Is the only one kept in the dark little me?
Where can it be? Where can it be?
There may be an answer, but I won't be knowing,
Where the wind's ebbing and where the wind's flowing.
It's dancing, it's breezing, it's speeding, it's slowing,
But where is it going? Where is it going?

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