(‘Peaceful’ by Dave Mills, via Fine Art America)
She weeps not in her own sorrow
Often though she does not of sadness at all
Tears are salty and wet
Not tainted by emotion
Only until after being spilt
So in her great xylem,
A warm lake waits calmly
So by drops
They would sprinkle forth
As she heaves and sways
Her delicate boughs
The unfeeling tears come alive
Filled with joy that surrounds her in peace
Embedded in despair in the rages of destruction
Of the lives that wither, stunted
Of the dreams that die, unrealized
*
Her soul is an old one
A gentle, strong and wise one
Most look upon her and see
A hunched ancient woman
Wrinkles etched along the shadows of laughter
She is the grandmother of the forest
The spirit of the land
Lending readily a branch, a limb
To lean on, to laugh on,
To cry on, to swing on
Souls to share, and hurts to mend
© Devina S.
Poet's Corner 