I want some acres with a brook
And a cabin, whose rustic look
Reminds me of those livelong days
When the worst social malaise,

Yea, the biggest worries we faced
Stemmed from fear of being caught
Deflowering neighbor’s gardens,
Since flowers by kids weren’t bought.

I want a place with many trees,
And all of them’d be a restroom;
A quiet place far from the world,
An Eden free of mankind’s gloom.

Acorns would be my fire crackers;
Grievous gunshots would not explode.
I could hear nature’s symphonies,
Not violent noises from the road.

Sycamore fuzz is on the ground;
Needles cloak the mud full of earthworms.
Moss is on the north of the trees,
But there are no echinoderms.

A preserve with bogs and lichens.
My wilderness refuge. My park.
Where I’d be able to see stars;
Where the night is still truly dark.

I would hide away like this dream
That I will never realize.
Dawn would be a wonderful sight,
Dusk would be its wondrous reprise.

Aging, I become more like Thoreau,
Though I hated Walden years ago.

Somewhere in the midst of a May.
A light breeze shakes the leaves and moss,
Causing dandelions to toss
Their offspring’s hope into the air,
Spreading their disease everywhere.
Much of the wildlife seems withdrawn,
Since the sun’s hope is hidden and gone.
Sweat pesters us like liquid gnats.
Pine pollen swarms like blinded bats,
Like sweet grass paints red fields.
The humidity never yields,
Just like love bugs who’d rather die
Than postpone mating while they fly.
A black anvil high in the skies
The force of gravity defies.
The dread din from its black smithy
Tells of weapons without pity.
Humus and leaves whirl and eddy.
The enemy’s advance is steady.
Strong gusts have wandered from the beach.
Thor says we’re finally in reach.
His hammer’s poised to crush with force
Like the Valkyries and Norse.
The air’s grown violent, dark, and dense.
We victims wait in chilled suspense.
Then, lightning strikes like cornered snakes,
Liking the fulgurite it bakes.
Thunder rolls like roly-polies.
Then, through the Holy of Holies
The voice of God gives his command:
A mighty boom trembles the land.
Each heart stops to see if it
Has lived to hear the minuet
The rain now plays with eager ease
Everywhere except in the lees.
Each square inch has become a bog
In answer to the praying frog.
The storm’s a documentary,
And lightning’s flash photography
Only serves to illuminate
The beauty that God did create.
He gave life to this thunderstorm.
It’s power in its purest form.
Then, suddenly as it had come,
The vagrant cloud seeks a new home.
Some trees now sport their fresh tattoos.
An indif’rent cow chews and moos.
Pecan limbs have been dismembered.
Ant hill construction’s been hindered.
A ball of fire steam cooks the earth,
And mother nature’s had rebirth.
Bees unwittingly pollinate.
Birds have begun to intonate.