This poem was inspired by a wonderful spring thunderstorm in Minnesota...For a poem of this length to be successful in any way (or for me to want to read it to the end!), it must have direction and keep the reader's interest. The poet should be certain it should not be shorter and that there is no repetition of its expression. I think this poem does all of that and that Paul was successful in this well written piece. I like it very much and I would appreciate some reader feedback on this poem. I posted it after serious second thoughts. - poetheart 04/18/02
Sky turns pale, a breeze blows by;
a musty smell, sent by the sky.
Cumulous arrive, in the distance, give warning;
of something powerful, perhaps by morning.
The birds are nervous, animals are skittish;
leaves now fly, the wind seems stanchless.
The sun is high, the dark draws neigh;
soon will come a torrent of sky.
The birds have flown, the animals vanished;
the trees now groan, the daylight banished.
The winds pick pace, it's progress, unimpeded;
they hurry in haste, her fervor, heeded.
The wind in her passion, with vigor and vim;
caress the tree and snaps the limb.
The first drops fall, the start of a squall;
the parched earth, broken, tries to take it all.
The earth drinks the rain, it's thirst unquenched;
a tree groans in pain, its roots now wrenched.
Harder now, the sky sheds tears;
broken down, the torrent nears.
Her fingers, like claws, snatch trees like they're straw;
wind no longer paws, with a scream, she opens her maw.
A torrent of rain, the earth drinks but it cannot sustain;
ecstatic with pain, roots raw from rain, the tree can't remain.
A flash splits the sky, now the tree will die;
broken, no longer dry, the tree stares blankly at the sky.
A roaring crash of thunder, wants to split the earth asunder;
the tree stares in wonder, while the flood draws it under.
Carried by the rain, it no longer feels the pain;
nature's own train, here it wants to remain.
Tossed like a sliver, riding the river;
with a final shiver, the tree stops it's quiver.
The rains slow their pace, the wind slacks its haste;
the currents cease their race, the tree rests in place.
Here it lies on top the earth, soon returned back to its birth;
pushing the tree for all it's worth , a brook now babbles as if with mirth.
The winds die down, the rains don't drown;
with a tiny little frown, the sun gazes down.
The earth now dries, the skies don't cry;
the birds now fly, the animals arrive.
A breeze blows by, a musty smell;
it is a smell the tree knows well.
© 2002 by Paul Robert Dinwiddie