The Hurricane Poem by Dennis Lange

In the softness of the morning
When the sun is barely dawning
And the vigor of the day is like a youth,
There is scarcely any stirring,
Neither whisper, nor a whirring,
Of a wind that searches weakness like a sleuth.

But there's news that should be heeded
That a hurricane is breeded
And it's churning in the waters off the shore.
We are scoffers in the morning,
And we heed no word of warning,
For the knocking is not knocking at the door.

It's the blazing of the brashness
And the blindness with its rashness
That keeps shutting out awareness of the storm.
And the bliss of keeping busy,
Like a buzzing bee, in tizzy,
Keeps the many from awareness of the harm.

Now upon the far horizon
Is a line of clouds, a ribbon,
And their issue is a gentle blowing breeze.
It is strange, this wind that's blowing,
Never speeding, never slowing,
Coming straight from widening ribbon that one sees.

Now the warning bells are sounding,
Steady, pealing, e'er abounding,
But the many focus on their daily care.
They all hurry, hunting honey,
Loving sun and making money.
Certainly, they're knowing, yet so unaware.

Steadily, the band advances
Till it fills the sky and chances
Of escaping all the damage fade away.
And the very act of sowing
Thoughtless seed while going, going,
Helps the hurricane to have its deadly day.

Hives are busy in the morning,
And they want no word of warning,
For the sweetness of the honey blinds the eye;
Blinds the eye, does daily living,
To the sign that life is giving
Of the line across the day when we must die.