#WhisperingNature

The grim of the soil coats my hands with it's muddled scent,

The flutter of trees sway to the harmony of the ancients,

The glory of the sun peeks between the evergreen leaves,

dressing me in a song that renews within me,

the jut of the beetles that mars an anthill far away,

the group of fire flies that joins the sun in his may,

the tilt of the gentleness that a humming bird levels upon,

the truth of the magestic danger that rings the eagle's eye succomb,

the grasses perk in response to my touching mannerism,

unable to stand still to the thigiotropism,

the dents of the mountain shaped into a looming caricature,

that extends a beauty without a manicure,

the seeping lava of volcano that destroys millions,

but hardens to magnificent rocks without inquisition,

the beady grains of sand that blast the desert air,

crippling and slashing past with the whip of the Arabian's hair,

the color and kindness of the forest blooms,

more than happy enough to share it's shiny loom,

the white of the artic that drowns out the static,

the blare of the chill that freezes the lunatics,

breath after breath, I draw,

as I watch the drop of a tree's shawl,

I grip my coat tighter, the heat burning through me,

the cries of the ancients thrust out in leaks,

unheard by the devilish machines,

houses, supermarkets, roads, they say,

and cover the foul stench of their blighted craze,

I pick at the fruits and run down it's branch,

tough and grity, against life's grouch,

the fruits cries out in a silent,

that I can not help but watch them smite it,

it's soul returning to the ancients above,

to rest in the quiet of it's little alcove.

I want to thank God for giving me the Grace to write this.
How was the poem?