The Hurricane of '92

The Hurricane of 92--The Storm

Last Month, when God got angry,

And Tore up all my trees;

His wrath was meant to scare me,

And bring me to my knees.

I cannot prove it was him,

But all the signs are there.

It wasn't giants of the past,

That laid my forests bare.

And while the storm was raging,

I quickly barred the door;

Outside, within my forest,

The gale blew even more.

A giant scythe cut round me,

Across the forest floor;

While inside, I stood trembling,

Against my cabin door!

My fir's were bruised and tattered,

Limbs scattered everywhere,

There seemed no place of refuge,

for birds who nested there.

Near the bubbling brook I heard,

Knocked off their fern topped mound,

A handful of my cedar,

Sent smashing to the ground.

It's clear that they resisted,

When kicked onto their sides,

Their roots still now are clutching,

The earth, the stone, their pride.

And what remains to see here,

Where once were trees so tall?

Trails that are forever blocked,

By roots that form a wall.

And when the storm subsided,

And left me all alone;

A rainbow soon developed,

Above my cabin home.

copyright 1992, Rendo