I found some old poems today and am consequently feeling poetic. I'm also really frustrated and felt like screaming at the wind. Then it occurred to me that the wind gets lots of really hard to answer questions thrown at it. The combination of that thought and my poetic state of mind produced the following poem.

Be nice.

Unanswered

Shapeless
Unseen
They shared what had been

The South spoke of rain
It turned into storms
The North spoke of snow
It gathered and swept

The East spoke of sand
It turned into death
The West spoke of fires
It shepherded, kept

This was their custom
This was their way
To crash and roar
To have their say

Again, the four great movers met
Had they found the answers yet?

They asked,
Their own question
The only reply
To the questions we scream
And laugh
And cry

Out to the four winds
The powers who sigh
Bowing trees low
Turning waves into spray
Their sighs moved the heavens
As they went on their way

For again they had no answers