I suspect this poem would have been quite different if it were written in the morning. But it wasn’t. Here is the prompt:

THE WIND
Five Verbs: howls, gusts, whispers, slips, breathes,
Five Nouns: air, breath, puff, breeze squall
Poem:

It’s only air,
this thing we call wind.
Moving air.
Sure, it comes
In all sizes:
puffs,
breezes,
squalls,
even torrents.
All of it is air.
Moving.
The moving air I like best
comes at night.
Dark breath whispering
from other side of the world.
Yes, sometimes it howls and shrieks and moans.
But I love the quiet night breath
slipping in my window,
here, now, next to me,
warming its breath on my skin.