To Shelley, the West Wind brought to mind:
Seasons change; Spring can’t be far behind.
Zephyrus, Chaucer’s Wind-gazing god,
Sweetly exhaled with a Springlike nod
To me, the Wind assaults the senses—
So fiercely loud, coldly relentless.
Its fury caused the Oaks’ surrender,
Upending blocks of florae splendor
In other acts of carefree evil
Its wrath ignites those fires lethal.
Wind rises, bulges, then inflates
It pierces, circles, flails the gates.
Dear Mother Nature’s grown so harsh;
Which Wind will She unleash this March?
Can we Earthlings reduce her ire
By casting off our oil-drenched mire?