I, The Wind Poem by Alan Bruce Thompson

Around the corner and up into the air,
I pull myself upwards faster than climbing the stair.

Sometimes I blow gently, down the book, across the page,
Ruffle the corners, to turn seconds into an age.

I swirl inside the leaves and make turmoil for a plant,
I explode as I sigh, and turn from breath to a pant.

I scurry along the ground and exhale in the dust,
Creating a cold dirt storm, to make a coat a must.

I blow, tease, and pester, till they all go inside,
Then when they all have gone home, it's my turn to hide.