Where The Wind Goes Poem

Ok, so of late I seem to enjoy making rhyming poems. Perhaps it is because I am reading Little Women, which uses older fashioned ways of speaking, of which I think of as quite poetic, and I am slightly absorbing the old way of speaking. So in writing maybe my brain is trying to combine the older more flowery poetic way of speaking with more modern words. And for some reason when mixing that in the blender of craziness that is my brain, it seems to result in a rhyming poem (don't read to much into it, it doesn't make sense to me either). 

So I suppose here is the result of the crazy blender, in a poem...

Where The Wind Goes

When the wind is not in the clouds,

And comes down into the human crowds.

I wonder to myself "oh where does it go?"

The answer is here, there, and all over the show.

It roars in the chasms and in the rifts,

And whips into the caves on the cliffs.

It whispers gently by the seaside,

And follows you with every stride.

It tickles you in the flowery meadows,

And plays with your hair as it snows.

It whistles along the shallow creeks,

And lives in the mountains where it shrieks.

It's dense and humid in the Peruvian jungles,

And swift in Antarctica where heat it bungles.

"But what would we do without wind?" I ponder

What would we do if it did not wander?

If it would prefer to stay up in the clouds,

Away from the many human crowds.