Wind

I believe this is the second poem I ever wrote.

The Wind rushed over the hill

Faster than I could see.

If it stood still,

Could it be seen?

It matters not to me,

For the Wind forever moves;

It is free--

never told to be moved.

Oh, how I wish I could be the Wind,

Billowing and dancing so free,

But I am trapped--

Never to be freed.