December 17, 2011
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The howling wind reaches for me
Daring the trees to claim my limbs
For their own
Leaves whip through my hair
Blinding me with the fury
Of an impending storm

Dirt and grit stings my body
Pinecones skitter over the pavement
While stones slowly rise from their beds
Unthinking, as am I

Soft beads patter to the sound of my footsteps
Unformed droplets
With no meaning except that which is assigned
No inherent rage, sadness, or cleansing powers

A storm is a manifestation of potential
The fundamental base
From which nature falls
And, after falling, rises to
Reclaim the world

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