The Storm

Winds blow hard and fast,
                       whirling storms of passion and fire
                                          and all that pains us so.
They cause chaos and concern
                       in the same unnerving sigh of pent-up emotion
                                           and static searching wildly for an upright tree
                                                                     standing lonesome in a forest.
Stems and stalks wave in panic
                       on the verge of collapse
                                           awaiting only the thunder.
Winds blow cold and lonely,
                       as thorns on roses, pricking dainty hands against a fair breast,
                                           shatter the halo atop an angels brow, and down it comes, Sparkling bits of ice and snow, spiraling in the wind,
                      dancing through gusts
                                            and pelting the heart of the howling gale.
Winds blow heavy, and in an instant
                       retreat back to the corner of natures heart.
In a niche carved out in the last storm,
                       a frightened animal  pokes out its disheveled head
                                             from within the heartwood of a lone tree
                                                                      standing amid a forest of seeds.