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Poem

The wind exhales then breathes in deep
It swallows the leaves as the willow weeps
Swimming in all Her earthly sounds
No longer green, leaves touch the ground
The limbs are never completely bare
Like old man oak is losing hair
Is it summer, fall, winter or spring?
Or maybe a season that lives between?
On the wing of a dove She ruffles a feather
That fluffs the clouds to change the weather
Then puffs grow dark as black as pitch
They bubble and boil then begin to itch
Until the burst that bares the sores
From which you’ll see Her blood, it pours
Crystal clean and clear as glass
A dancing, flowing huge wet mass
Sweeping branches often missed
Blades of grass the dewdrops kiss
The falling source of Nature’s life
Its fresh cool water will wash Her knife
The tool with which She’ll quake the land
Then slide the mountain with Her hand
To scrape away the mud and snow
That Mother laid there, just for show
In a snow-free zones that get much hotter
She’ll kick up the wind and spit the water
She has not a method to freeze them out
So She shows Her strength in a waterspout
Or funnels of sand with winds of fury
It’s Mother’s law there is not jury
So pray to a God, your soul to save
As Nature prepares for a closer shave
By ocean swells or lava that flows
When She strikes whether or not one knows
Mother Nature’s certain, and that’s for sure
For no one is safe, not even the pure.

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