A Dusting ... A Dancing

It falls as white dust and delineates
The nature of the
Wind. I usually
Guess at it, by the 

Way it buffets and skirts my rigid shell.
A dusting reveals
The white flowing
Folds of the dress of 

The dancer that is the wind. As she spins,
Her skirts tickle my
Calves. As she leaps just
Over me, legs stretch 

Out, fluttering in my face. She sashays
To a seductive
Beat and I feel drawn 
Near. She limbos down 

To the black top and then breaks across it…
Till she is swirling,
Gliding wisps that pile
Into white puddles.