Storm

The waiting crows are scattering now,
the thunder shouts its wrath 'cross seas.
A sound to remind me of a voice,
only as still as water and angry as me.

The wind howls out in the piney woods;
the putrid bog drowned in fresh rain.
To jolt the nostalgia of such a place,
that exists in a memory of berry stains.

There in the crook of a lightning bolt,
I left my wish to strike the empty fields.
To lay in a patch of Lavender and moonlight,
distracted by pleasantries I cannot wield.

The tender hands weaving twiggy baskets,
to fill with blooms and hillside herbs;
The ones I hoped would find my wish,
chasing the thunderheads, and a flurry of birds.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

Good to know the anger. Make us know we are alive.
"The waiting crows are scattering now,
the thunder shouts its wrath 'cross seas.
A sound to remind me of a voice,
only as still as water and angry as me."
I loved the above lines. Anger can be a blessing or can make us dead in heart. Powerful words shared dear Anna.
Coyote

[The Twin Arenas]

nice choice of words. reads like a painting.

[Ballpark Frank]

This is creative and sweet. I am honored to have read it, and humbled by your ability.