I watch the grass bow, but not bend,
Caressed by a fickle wind.
Adjusting to it, the bird in flight,
Feathers its wings with perch in sight.
The butterfly seems blown to and fro,
But goes, magically, with the flow.
To mate with the nectar's cup,
And somehow, still drink its full sup.
The sparkling movement on the water's mirror,
Like diamonds forming, only to disappear.
My thoughts are so like the fickle wind
Flowing in and out, yet never end.
And when I think of you once more,
Like the clouds blowing gently by my door.
Will your love bow but never bend,
Or will it fly away with the fickle wind?
Copyright 2000 © Ronald W. Hull