The wind throws its voice to the edge of the cliff
Where the vines cling to the cold rock surface
For the only life they have left,
With a hope as green as their aged browning skin,
And a resolve as fragile as lace.
Nature’s tears fall and weave their way
In and out of grooves shallow and deep,
Reminding the rock of all the years it’s stood,
Of all the tempests it has weathered,
And how many more it must still.
But its worries are washed away as it remembers
The vines that depend on its strength,
On its indubitable endurance.
So it takes the next gust of wind
As a breath of fresh air,
And the emerging ray of sunshine
As fuel for its next battle
With the wayward world.