Poetry Hack

There has been little, if any, poetry. Here it goes:

Along the twists of skyline blvd, late friday night,
wind gusts lashed from left, rains pelted from the right,
Young trees  succumbed and fell.
Reminded me of a rose bush left out in a storm long ago  in a poem.
I rode through inside a  black Merc
taking turns at top speed, the speed limit a lower bound,
with Mozart on listener supported radio.