The Storm

The heavy sky sinks to the ground

to kiss the brittle soil,

like an ageless youth

would gently hold

a withering old lover.

The whispering wind raises his voice

to a free and glorious howl:

rolling wildly over the hills,

cackling for unbound thrill,

with blazing stormy eyes, he calls

the trees to violent dance;

they surrender to his savage gaze

and try to hold their limbs.

At last he calls the armies of the sky

forth to storm the lands;

lightning lords with sparking hands

and machinery of thunder.