What Is The Mood Of The Wind Poem

The Wind: It Sleeps Upstairs

Abandoned homes, they sing to me a song of yesteryear.

At night, they cry a ghostly tune, of lives worn ’way by time.

Just listen close: the gentle coo, as soulful as a loon.

They whisper secrets long not said: to none but you and me.

Across a nation, wide and far, from there to here and more.

On winsome lanes and dusty trails, they stood, they stand and lean.

Thistles bloom to comfort them; long reeds bend in the wind.

Near flattened shields of rock and lakes, a prairie sky so blue.

As homes of bubbling soup in pots and spoon-thick coffee mugs;

Of kneaded dough and ham on bone, pies set in pans to cool.

And flowers purple, pink, and blue arranged in mason jars;

Of families gathered ’round plates and folded hands saying grace.

No mother left to kiss a cheek or bandage a boo-boo.

And father’s gone for good this time; he sleeps under a tree.

No dog to bark, cat to meow, or pony’s playful canter.

The post, they stopped it years ago: none left to read a letter.

Then the vicious foot had come and kicked the door to pieces.

The frame, it broke; they pillaged it, stole hope and dust and memories.

A baseball pitch, a major hit; the stone smashed every glass.

Of bats and mice and spiderwebs, in rooms that hear no more

The laughter, song, and Christmas cheer . . . tears sobbing in a pillow.

The roof has cried its cedar shakes, the panes bled into shards.

Stairs once creaked a tell-tale woe, all spongy soft and rot.

A sash once hung, no longer hinged, the point of it forgotten.

No warmth shines in a hearth at night: none to poke the fire.

Each spring, a sun anew it tries to warm its bones with breath,

As summer slinks its ivy arms about its frame for strength.

And autumn comes, the house it tries once more to fall away;

But winter comes and freezes it: to withstand in place for