Shelley starts with the West wind, and Autumn,

A quarter explorer,

And many curse the rough rivalry of North Wind,

Though MacDonald knew better.

South Wind: easier still,

With visions of travel agency scenes and a gentle warmth blowing,

And East, famous for ferocity:

But I move further.

I want the winds no weatherman ever gestured about

On a screen which is really blue,

But looks like a quarreling dozen amoebas.

I want to hear descriptions of the Winds of Change, that

Broiling impenetrable dust storm, and when

The dust clears, nothing is quite the same.

Or who remembers the Ill wind,

(It blows no good)

With its leer and thunderheads misshapen?

Some vaguely mumble of Solar Wind:

I vision some proud frigate plowing through a starry sea,

Sail straining with a strange and cosmic gale.

And as this poem is written I feel

The gentle steady push of the Winds of Time,

Rolling me further across the ocean

Like a forsaken tumbleweed.



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