Spinning Blades

Cutting the air above 
The spinning blades of a fan
Air stirred causes the hair
On wrinkled arms 
To slightly move
Small trees in a storm
That will not flag
Like the ponderosas
I saw on the hill
Above my childhood home
And yet
My branches move away
From the direction of all winds
Which tells me
The long quiet is coming
My bark shall fall from branches
Split by gales that have me
At their mercy
To where it will nourish the sod
All these reminders
From a cooling breeze
Inside on a hot day

Barry G. Wick