(This poem was inspired by feeding my chickens, of all things. It was November, and a storm was brewing as I threw the scratch to them, most of which simply blew back on me. The rest of the poem grew with the clouds on the way home).
of wind, not rain—
are things returned.
Four cloudy steeds traverse the skies
with silver hides
and lightning eyes,
their path unchallenged by the peak,
the stony sentry of the land—
he recognizes those they bear
so have a care
if you are there
to watch the Reapers scythe the trees
and bring the mountains to their knees.
The waters bite
the banks and fight
to join the riders in their flight,
their efforts goaded by the wind
the puckish trickster off his leash—
so long he’s waited now to teach
the mortal world to feel his reach.
At last the racing wind will fade,
to save his strength for another day,
and briefly clouds will bathe with tears
to soothe the seethe of mortal fears.