A Mother's Wrath

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.