She caressed me with gently firm grazes, a creature so beautifully dangerous as to beguile me, the tempest sent forth from other worlds to cast her cooling passions of fire and flood over a world not yet starved for her affections, but needful of her offerings nonetheless.  And so I offer this e.e.cummings poem. . .

the wind is a Lady with
bright slender eyes(who

moves)at sunset
and who—touches—the
hills without any reason

(i have spoken with this
indubitable and green person “Are
You the wind?” “Yes” “why do you touch flowers
as if they were unalive, as

if They were ideas?” “because, sir
things which in my mind blossom will
stumble beneath a clumsiest disguise, appear
capable of fragility and indecision

—do not suppose these
without any reason and otherwise
roses and mountains
different from the i am who wanders

imminently across the renewed world”
to me said the)wind being A Lady in a green
dress, who; touches: the fields
(at sunset)