In Years To Come…
The Ancient One ignites the air
North easterlies with mighty flair,
Roar down the green and grassy plains
Flattened by the thrusting rains.
(In a small den on a high hill
Wolves huddle close in the stormy chill.
Lean eyes flash the bolts of light
No howling at the moon this night)
A birch falls onto flooded grasses
Seeds are carried to barren places
The storm that thunders, pelts, and scourges,
In years to come, lush landscape forges.
Michele Marie
