The music of a local breeze
Made dancers come alive.
Paper spirits fill the air,
No longer cast aside.
Swoosh! They’re picked up quickly,
Then but gentle is their glide.
Cushioned puffs of air to take them
On a lovely ride.
Then swoosh! Again they’re taken up,
A cross wind breaks their waltz.
A jealous blowing western gale,
And suddenly they’re lost.
Adrift somewhere these happy thoughts
Will find the ground again.
But pray the winds will lift them up
To heights they’ve never been.
Levi Hill — Copyright 2002