Not-so-pesky Poetry

The poem is moving along with my leisure...


The shower is only an hour away.
Mimosa trees wait in prostrate, humbled form.
With a dense, clement breeze, the white lilies sway.
Nature is building rapport with the storm.
Nature is hoping, with rain, to reform.

The peace of the hens and the geese is now restive.
Still, neither foxes nor hounds are to blame.
Birds of all feathers become circumspective
When gray, glorious clouds, in fine fury, proclaim:
“Tempest!”, the storm’s lofty, long hallowed name.

When heavy heavens seek wholesome relief,
Unburdening their load on the compliant land,
They darken and grumble, betraying false grief,
Thereby veiling to mankind their godly errand:
That of blessing mankind through His divine command.

This blessing in shrouds is moments from hap’ning
And finally, one man glances into the sky.
He smells the moist wind, now persuaded that Spring
Is not disregarding Her promise to sigh,
And with that sigh, weep - Weep the clouds above dry.

After raising his hands to the gathering billows
In a fist of defiance or sign of thanksgiving,
The man walks through lilies, mimosas, and willows
To arrive at the shanty in which he’s been living,
A shanty whose hens and geese have a misgiving.

The man feeds the fowl; they peck the corn warily -
Fodder won’t ease every worry and care.
And with a last glimpse at the sky the man finally
Enters his lowly abode with a prayer -
A plea that this storm will enrich, not impair.

Light, striving to pierce Earth’s dim canopy,
Yields at last, in the knowledge that it will return.
This ephemeral coup of tempestuous obscurity
Yet lends to the majesty of Spring’s sky-churn,
The transient darkness, both benign and stern.

At present, the Light is content to be conquered -
It, Earth, the man, and the hens and the geese -
By “Tempest,” that dark glory so often abjured,
So often cursed by faux lovers of peace,
Soi-disant pacifists who want storms to cease.

Light, Earth, and Birds understand storm’s necessity,
But often Man thinks on a narrower field.
While Nature wants storms, in its wise, clear acuity
Man wants the storm to unblinkingly yield
To whatever whim has lately to him, appealed.

And the raindrops have yet to fall. Still working on it.