The trees covered in finest jewels,
Every crackle bark edge, crooked branch, stub of a twig,
Glistening with diamonds,
But they sleep while their limbs are so adorned.
The sun, bright, with heat not enough to reach the living,
Bending rays between gravestones.
The people sleep with no concern about wind chill.
Dead eyes at the foot of glorious trees.
All the breathing souls are bowed as one beneath the frozen glare of cold.
After they wage their wars and conquer the strength of men,
Bringing freedom into captivity,
They will yet be subject to the gale, the heat, the ice.
Oblivious to declarations of authority,
Weather will pour out over every mortal,
Until one day, face in the dust, the snow, the remnants of destroying storms,
Man will have nothing more to say except,
“I am not the one who rules this planet.”
Clare Graith 