Three short lines give us one quiet picture: a woman recovering from a seizure, her hair tousled by the wind. We don't learn who she is or how the speaker knows her, though the closeness of the observation suggests someone watching her carefully, perhaps with love or worry.
The word "seizure" brings in something violent and frightening, but the poem steps away from the event itself. It focuses on the aftermath, the slow "mending." The wind, which is ordinary and a little wild, is set against her fragile state. Her "disheveled" head could suggest vulnerability, as if the seizure has left her undone. It could also feel almost freeing, a sign that she is back in the world, outdoors, alive.
The mood is tender and hushed, with relief mixed with unease. Because the poem is so brief, it leaves gaps, and the reader fills them with the same watchful attention the speaker seems to have.