Winds

The clouds sit low on our heads,
  white becoming dark becoming black.
The leaves of the high trees
  rustle gently
Then with accelerating desperation --
  acorns falling on us
  sheets of leaves floating to our feet.
The rustling calms,
  the sun tries to break through
But again the clouds deepen, darken
And the leaves' rustling resounds in the air:

Harbringer of chaos,
  Forerunner of change,
Nature in all her energy,
Heralding our powerlessnes,
  Even in our consuming strength,
Refreshing our souls.

©2009 John A. Mills