The Wind

By Patrick L. Whittle

I don’t know where the wind comes from;

I don’t know where it goes.

I cannot see the wind at all.

I only know it blows.

It makes the doors and shutters knock

And leaves go flying by.

It makes the branches sway and rock

And clouds go ’cross the sky.

It pushes when I go to school

And whispers through the tree.

It causes ripples on the pool—

But wind I cannot see.

In wintertime it blows the snow

And piles it up so high.

It blows a clothesline full of clothes,

When they’re hung out to dry.

I don’t know where the wind comes from.

I shouldn’t really care.

I know it’s rough and pushes me,

And so I know it’s there.

Illustrated by Dick Brown