The wind was blowing
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When you were born in the spring.
I watched the treetops swaying
from my hospital bed as you lay on my chest.
It was blowing when you were one,
Running though the grass,
Picking dandelions for Papa.
Papa always smiled when he watched you play.
Sometimes you made him smile a tear
And he would rub it into his calloused hand.
The wind was blowing when Papa died.
The rain poured down with our tears.
You drew Papa a picture to help him get better,
but he never did.
Yesterday, the wind was blowing.
The dandelions blew like snow in the air
And swirled above the soccer fields.
You taught your brother how to kick the ball
And how to run faster than the wind.
I smiled as I thought of Papa smiling at you,
That first day when the wind blew.
This is how I originally had this poem formatted. I was trying to follow the instructions in the guidelines. I think this will look much better.
Do not look back in anger, or forward in fear, but around in awareness. -James Thurber