A Lost Reflection

Like the whispering wind— it’s sly and cunning.

Sometimes it’s a dreadful draft

And tiny marks appear on your sensitive skin.

At other times, that breeze is beautiful

As it shifts the grass and the flowers in the field

And your hair gently moves to its beat.

Sometimes it brings news of a frightening storm

And a cloudburst pours along the wind,

Creatively crafting a river of agony.

As it subtly comes to a pause

And the sun peeks through the formidable fog,

You’re left in solitary with nothing,

But only thoughts of what’s to come.