PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

there's a cold wind in the forest and it's rising to a squall

we need neither glass nor quicksilver, we feel the pressure fall

while the high trees proudly standing in their ancient sunlit glade

will soon wish they could shelter with the bramble and the nightshade

this screaming gale will find them out, the shallow root and rotten core

and the mightiest oaks may be the first to crash into the forest floor

there untroubled by this winter's blasts are saplings small and supple

unbowed in forced obeisance, they hunger for their time of light

and watch the fall with sheer delight, although they must beware,

for falling giants will have no care, in who they crush in dying.

time heals all wounds, except the cancer of pride  

and sick trees must fall, so that forests may thrive

and in this forest of nations there is value in knowing

in which storm to stand and in which to start bowing