storm prose

Wee hour thunderstorms
Mystical shivers of wetness
Jolted awake by the rumblings
Pitch black skies
The room fills with the smell of green.

Lying there in the fog of deep sleep interrupted
Heavy drops on giant Birds of Paradise
Mother's marching band
Rapping Her rhythms on rooftops
The sweet songs of a lullabye
That only a Mother can sing
Deep, peaceful rest.

Morning breaks
The smells of green so deep
As if all there is on this spinning orb
Are forests of Life
The birds in full song
A symphony of gatherers
Flitting here and there to harvest the bounty
Worms unearthed by the deluge.

Nary a breeze to be felt
Stillness over the house
Like a light summer blanket
Softly swaddling fragile babes
With love and warmth
The trees sigh softly.



When morning breaks, the smells are even greener. The birds, in full song, happily daring here and there to gather the teeming crop of earthworms unearthed by the deluge. All is still otherwise. Not a breeze to be found. Still and serene