Storm

 

 

 

Up there she cries like a modest lady

Sating the parched through a heart that’s sturdy

And nurses to being the dead of the earth

And vows to multiply her mirth.

 

When her heaviness is great, the seas quiver

The farmer shake afraid of too much splatter

In tandem with the wind, the eagle would rather

Rest and fly when she is gladder.

 

Pray that the clouds are ever gentle

Be it sunny or rainy weather

Hide beneath a roof or something stable

When she starts to break her manacle.

 

 

(c) Ruth Mostrales, February 2009