so cleansing a thing
is the rush of the tempestuous gusts
of a rainstorm's sonnet,
tearing through the still springtime air.
how bold is that force
which destroys all in its path?
yet how pure is the earth
in its wake?
the sky's messenger calls,
roaring, beckoning, daring.
carving rosy cheeks and tangled hair,
clouding april's skies with winter
for a day, an hour.
uprooting the old and turning soil anew,
the wind descends
and reminds us
that change will arrive.
for the storm cares not for continuity
or fragile nostalgia,
it only cares to tear the world down,
and watch it rebuild itself once more.
YOU ARE READING
wildflowers
Poetry"wander through fields of lavender and smile beneath the setting moon, for the winter is over." a collection of original poems inspired by springtime, the stars, and laughter.
