The Mother Tree
A bullet of wind and ice whips through the tree,
leaves scatter and fly towards me.
I remain still.
Winter trills in disappointment and sends another bout of wind.
Leaves fall but are whipped up by the gale,
almost like little fallen soldiers.
More and more fall,
all the while it getting colder and colder.
With a tired sigh,
and a weeping cry,
the tree allows itself to continue to die.
Its children leaves lie around like jewels,
laying in great pools.
Winter crows in delight,
with barely any might,
she takes over the night.
The Mother Tree surveys her children leaves,
and says, 'Rest with peace.'
Frost creeps over the browning leaves,
and snow and ice blow through the blistering trees,
following their Mother Tree.
What a thing this war turned out to be.
Wicked laughter whisks through the wind as Winter officially takes control.
I look into the Valley of Trees as Winter takes her toll.
Everything shivers, no longer an enemy.
Winter holds on,
Her grip strong.
And there it stays,
Going through with a riot.
Winter holds on still,
Reluctant to let go.
The land around melts and begins to sow.
Life is coming back to the Mother Tree.
Buds peep open, new children.
And there begins,
The Mother Tree.
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Comments about this poem (The Mother Tree by Danya Qattea )
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