The Wind

The beauty of a gentle wind

Is not found in its breeze

Or its gentle cooling touch

But in its silent melody

 Drifting through the trees

Building slowly into a swelling chorus

It lifts leaves from branches

The forest itself becomes alive

Swaying to and fro 

As the conductor gently commands

With violent stabs and a quickening pace this creature gains strength

Lifting the crescendo of its majesty to the sky

Bursting forth into the city 

Tearing walls and houses from foundation 

The ground is ripped from the earth

Leaving a barren scar on the lead sheet of this composition

This army of a gale conquers land and sea

Ripping to shreds any who would dare oppose

Daring to challenge God himself 

Upon a boat

In a small insignificant lake

This great orchestra of power is brought to its knees by the simple words

 

Be still

 

The loudest swell is the silence

That follows the storm

The beauty of it all is

It was written that way