End of Day
End of the day and wind must howl,
One's spirit grows foul.
All of the wind tests one's nerve,
Easy to distract, redirect and swerve.
Push and gust makes one huff,
Become agitated and gruff.
Such a beautiful morning at the start,
Each hour that passes mind pricked with dart.
Wind in the ear,
Draws up boiling fear.
Constant gnawing of the bone,
Exposing heart of stone.
Face the wind,
Allow its bend.
Tumbleweeds of soul,
Blown away, uprooted path to whole.
About the Author: Brian Bucks lives on a small horse ranch in Western Nebraska and is a husband, father, electrical engineer, and poet.
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