How she calls

The storm falls
And in the furrows of its wake,
Warmth is sown upon the ice.
The moon, beaconing from its height,
Illuminates with indiscriminate sight,
The speeding sails of gray tilled clouds,
Skim the charging waves of distant,
Needled crowns.
As if, black horses rearing upon a gown of white.
How the tranquil past of yesterday,
Is washed tonight,
Colossus.
How the river in its traces,
Gushes,
Whipped to writhe engorged,
And course forever on.
I am, besieged by the storms cacophony,
Driven to a given knee,
With the splendor of its raging symphony.
How such nights, such moments,
Whenever they befall,
Raise the soul to the spirit of the writhing river,
And nature,
Nature.
In all her glory and her passion,
How she calls.
How she calls.
How she,
Takes what's hers with shared volition,
To be touched, shaken and awoken.
With the sound,
And the presence,
Carried by her possession.