by Robert W. Gill

Copyright - January 24, 1999

It was 2 in the morning when the silence changed into a drum solo.
A flash of light forced me from my slumber
and the crisp shout of thunder set my heart beating
in time with the deluge now falling upon my roof.
The light and sound show that followed
rivaled the best of any rock band today.

Morning dawns grey.
In it's half light I survey nature's handy work.
Newly broken limbs lay across the lawn
as if the abandoned playthings of a giant.
My backyard is either
a melting skating rink
or a draining swamp
depending on my vantage point.
That pile of leaves
the one that never quite made it to the compost heap last fall
now covers my water logged lawn.

I remind myself again,
that before man carved up the forests
the planet had it's own way of controlling growth.
No reason has come along to change that.
Certainly not the fact that I call this acre home.
Excepting our self-annihilating tendencies
I expect this plot to be reclaimed by the life that surrounds it.
My abode of wood + pseudo-stone is but a pimple
on the backside of this spinning globe.

Given time
all I own and most of what I hold dear
will dissolve into primal ooze.
Patience is the virtue the Green Mother holds most dear.


Last updated: March 24, 1999
Created + maintained by Bob Gill.