Of The Seed And The Poison Rain - Poem by Rowan Welch
So much depends on the Earth and the Sky.
The Thunderbird claps it’s wings-
Only with the lightning storm.
But everybody knows when destruction is nigh,
For the wind’s message sings-
And the clouds start to form.
Not much else is left for the seed.
Whose plow hath draped-
On the summers day eve?
It’s crushed and swarmed by everyday things,
Yet still keeps it’s shape-
And plots to be conceived.
What else may it do but grow and develop?
It’s life span be long-
Lest confronted by fire.
It seems though, that nature be easily fed up-
With ethically wrong-
Plants’ eternal attire.
So the rain starts to tumble, and whisk, and weave.
Down to the surface-
It falls to the tree.
The tree feels the pain, and begins to see.
It’s leaves burn like furnaces-
As it’s spirit is freed.
Many do mourn the great topiary.
But rejoice in the fact-
That it may finally breathe.
Beneath, though, there lies another small fairy.
The animals all pack-
To see the new tree.
So ever you worry-
About life’s endeavors,
What remains will be someone’s treasure.
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