Feels Like Home
The authenticity of Mother Nature
The day starts with the lightening of grey skies,
Foggy mist shrouding the dawning landscape,
The very air we breathe is wet, cold, blustery,
As the sun is hidden behind Mother Nature’s cape.
⛈️
As the morning stirs, the clouds begin to darken,
The birds have hightailed it to their favourite tree,
Their songs have gone silent as they hold their breath,
Waiting for the forecast, will it blow over or become beastly?
⛈️
The ants begin to scamper for higher ground,
New nests to be built frantically,
Undercover a new necessity as the wind picks up,
And the barometer drops organically.
⛈️
The leaves on the trees begin to stir,
As they built their memento within their frantic dance,
They shiver in sheer anticipation,
Knowing their thirst will be quenched, there’s a good chance.
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Lightening flashes off in the distance,
Followed seconds later by a gigantic throbbing clap of thunder,
The dark clouds look ominous from my window,
The rain forecast is pending and will drench and plunder.
⛈️
A loud crash rattles my windows,
Pitter patter begins to drum upon my roof,
The world is highlighted as if from a huge camera flash,
And I’m thankful I’m under cover and waterproof.
⛈️
The rain heightens as it veils the landscape from my view,
Thunder explodes above in loud crashes,
Hailstones are thrown violently upon the earth,
As the lightening strikes impede unending flashes.
⛈️
Storms have always felt like home to me,
Finally the chaos outside is the same as the chaos inside,
It the only time I get to shine with my authenticity,
And during the turbulence I no longer feel the need to hide.
Please click the link below my name to read more of my work. I would also like to thank you for taking the time to read this today and for all your support.
If you enjoy this piece, you may enjoy this one too.
Please visit my website if you'd like more information on my newly published book, Battle Angel : The Ultimate She Warrior.
Originally published on Medium
About the Creator
Colleen Millsteed
My first love is poetry — it’s like a desperate need to write, to free up space in my mind, to escape the constant noise in my head. Most of the time the poems write themselves — I’m just the conduit holding the metaphorical pen.
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Comments (3)
I've long had a similar relationship with storms. Something about them makes me forget my inner turmoil.
Finally the chaos outside is the same as the chaos inside. Omgggg that line was my favourite! Fantastic poem my friend!
If you were on the news as the weather ☁️ woman That would be intriguingly Great💙💥😁-Nice piece Friend❗