(poems go here) The wind it sits, highly enthroned,
Its voice a commanding power,
Pulling over trees into prostrate positions, mocking humility.
The wind, when edged voice speaks,
Stridently spoken, bold-hemmed terms,
With no word or wonder of anyone else.
Its mighty hands of unforeseen authority,
Teaches the trees of every year their patterns,
To sprouting in the spring and swaying in the summer;
Imagining life to be its eager servant.
But the wind meets its greatest foe,
When Fall’s proceeding drums do beat silent.
Shifting positions, the wind does not see,
As Autumn’s tongue licks fires into leaves.
The bottom whisper does grow,
Into the wind’s constant, pestilent- filled groan.
Lively hearts turn to brittle bone,
But not without a spark between dry branches.
Of little frame is the drumming whisper,
Autumn’s fatal blow,
But monstrous and monumental is its cry,
Where once the wind did toss and bellow.
Oh, come and see, marvel, and wonder,
At the phenomena of ages,
That repeats itself with vigor,
Before Hell’s black winter,
Oh, look unto those charred hills,
Where nature has swallowed up death,
Only to heave up fertile life again.
Look! Stop and take heed,
See the image of our breaths!
Oh, look to the hills and see,
The fire, the living fire,
among the trees.