This villanelle was written as an assignment in a poetry course I took in 2018. It remains unchanged besides the final line, which was fixed to fit the meter.

The sweeping, curling of the sighing air
I saw one night alone while walking home - 
It battered me alone without a care.

Though harsh and cold, the wind’s abrasive wear
Imbued the snow with a lamp-illumined roam;
A lovely curling in the sighing air.

A chance to see the wisping wind is rare;
Its secret sound evades our eye and combs
(Or tries to comb) our hair without much care.

Yet, there I saw an untamed, violent stare.
I trembled thinking of my wants, how some
Are swept and curled by the sighing air,

And, dashed to pieces, often do not fare.
For sin is cruel like the cross of Rome;
It shatters me within without a care.

But then I heard His Word which cannot err:
“The Spirit moves like wind across the dome,
He sweeps and curls like the sighing air.”
The wind is Him who batters with all care.

References: John 3:8