Pesky Poetry

The first couple of lines of a poem would not allow me to fall asleep yesterday, and when I awoke this morning, their cadences still reverberated in my half-conscious mind. So I typed them up in Word and thought I would post the musings of July 1st, 2007:


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.

I might come up with a few more stanzas. I don't know. It was fun, though - that pesky poetry.