People always think they have control over everything. That is, much to their disbelief, not true. The force we call Mother Nature is infact all the animals on Earth. Every town has a hidden radio. Only the animals in that town know where it is. Whatever weather the animals desire, they say into the radio. This message is sent to a secret collection of animals up in the clouds. The animals recieve the message and change the weather accordingly. Unfortunately for us, different animal species prefer different weather. Frogs like wet foggy days, while deer like it sunny and warm. Thanks to this, the weather is constantely changing. If you look real close, you might find a spot that all the animals swarm to, then make their signature animal noises. There, if you search around, you might just find a secret radio to the clouds. You might decide to put in a weather request. If you do, just know it won't stay that way for long. 
 

I will never forget you,
Your bright smile
Your demanding eyes
You excpected the best of me
So I tried my hardest around you.
The reason I am who I am today
Is partly all thanks to you.
You were the best teacher I ever had
I learned so much in your class
So many skills that will never leave me
Your picture is still crisp in my mind
From the two thirds of a year you were my teacher
I miss you so much.
Thank you
For everything you did in my life.
 

Dreams are like ghosts,
Presenting themselves in the dark
Yet never really there,
They send you running and screaming
Shaking and crying
Wishing you had never seen them
Although deep down you knew it was fake.
Dreams are like ghosts,
They have the ability to pick you up
And help you rise from your darkest hour,
They fill you with joy and hope
Peace and love,
Plastering a smile on your face
Despite a tiny voice in your head
Saying it was all an illusion.
Either way,
Have them be good or bad
Uplifting or downbringing
It was just a semblance of something not really there
Meant to send you spinning in useless circles. 


 

The day is quiet
The forest is lonely, cold
When will the birds wake?

It was a cool fall morning and the leaves on trees glistened gold. The wind gently touched my hair, neatly braided behind my back, and tied with my best blue ribbon. My checkered dress swayed as I walked across the lime-green field towards my favorite place in the whole world: 
    A bold twisting tree with branches that reached for the sun. 
    I had always come here. It was my sacred thinking place. The shade of the old oak was everlastingly a comfort, as I would sit and watch the sun rise, reach it’s peak in the sky, then fall back beyond the horizon. I sat here through the day, listening to the sounds around me. 
    I had always known this tree was special. There were rumors and stories, that it was a gift from the Gods, or that it was the tree of life. I liked to make up stories about how it got there. The stories would always end with something funny happening, and that was how I spent my days. 

Whispers of the wind 
glow of the sun 
my branches have begun to fall
my trunk has started to creak
the land has changed 
the soil in which I am rooted
has held here for decades to come and go
long ago I held a promise
pilgrims relied on my fruit
making way for more humans
years later my land was different
I had a dry, hot home
People had set up their home not far from my roots
I watched as they too changed
after many years they too left
machinery came decades later
it was a devastating sight 
I liked it better before
when it was simply the land and I
my, how much we have changed







 

Nature has its own thoughts
feelings 
words
I understand them as if they were my own 
swirling colors in my mind
each one saying something new
telling something different 
 

I open my eyes to rose petals 
their scent wafting into the air
like gold droplets shooting to the sun 
being carried through the air on a soft breeze 
to a palace of heaven
built by love and laughter 
where none can do wrong
in a world of joy
 

The mountaintop glittered
Work of a fresh snowfall
With more flakes to come

Foxes run through the thick forest 
Leaving petite marks as they go
Saying "Foxy was here"

Puffy chunks of snow
Fall from limp trees
Re-building the chilly layer

flickering candles in the open night
dying out as the sun rises 
being lit as the moon shines 
a new way in the dark
when the only thing you can see 
the wide stare of the abyss 
looking down from above