Poem: Mother Nature’s Storm

She gathers her skirts of silver cloud
Above the restless, waiting land,
Her breath a hush, then long and loud,
A warning no one can command.

The trees fall still to hear her speak,
The rivers pause beneath her gaze,
The mountains bow, austere and bleak,
As thunder crowns her shadowed ways.

She braids the lightning in her hair,
Gold fire stitched through sheets of gray,
And flings it wildly through the air
To split the night apart from day.

Her tears are rain—relentless, cold—
They drum on roof and root and stone,
Each droplet fierce, each torrent bold,
A symphony the sky has thrown.

The ocean answers with a roar,
Waves rising like a rebel choir,
While winds unfasten every door
And feed the dark with urgent fire.

Yet in her fury, fierce and free,
There beats a steady, ancient heart—
For every shattered branch we see
Is just the start of healing’s art.

By dawn she softens into mist,
Her rage dissolved in amber light,
Leaves jeweled where her rain has kissed,
The world made clean by holy night.

Mother Nature does not destroy
Without the promise of rebirth;
Within her storm, both dread and joy
Are woven in the fate of Earth.

Thank-you for reading,

Brenda Marie