In the dead of night

An angry wind blew strong

Rushing around the building

His constant roar

Warning of his strength

Perpetuated by occasional short whistles

Signaling his mischievous intent

His deeds went unseen under the cloak of darkness

As the dawn approached he drew a breath

The eerie calm contradicted the visible damage

Tree branches severed and thrown to the ground

Outdoor furniture haphazardly rearranged

Loose objects torn from their homes

Carried to distant hiding places

The losses of their saddened owners

Become the surprise gifts to their finders

Plant pots unceremoniously toppled over

Like the fallen statues of historical figures

Who stood unmolested for decades

Until it was suddenly time for them to experience

The gale force winds of political correctness

The plants just lay there helpless

Soil scattered on the ground

As blood spilled in battle

These green wounded warriors

Silently waiting for an intervention

From their green-fingered owners

Soon to be upright with fresh soil and water

A few comforting words

Restoring their courage to bloom in floral beauty

Their flowers are free from discrimination

Producing a fine display

In any political climate

We have a lot to learn from them