Persistent breeze,
Pressing on trees,
Playing with branches,
Tickling leaves.
Not a wind:
Not hard or mean,
Nothing threatening.
Quite crisp and clean.
Lying at pause,
Like a pup at rest,
Or a dormant wave
Before driven to crest,
This playful breeze
Turns off and on —
Dances with branches
And then is gone.
But soon returns;
At the trees takes aim,
And tosses and tussles
In its innocent game.