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Summer Storm near Pulborough, Sussex, by Samuel Palmer
Robert L. Martin

Mighty Air

Not there but there so mighty,
We gaze into nothing but yet everything,
The invisible that becomes the incarnate,
The powerless but yet the powerful,
The obscure but yet the obvious,
The calm but yet the riled,
The passive but yet the aggressive,
The feeble but yet the mighty air,
As you rise through the ranks,
From the lowest to the highest authority.
 
You run through the pipes
And turn yourself into sweet music.
You let in the fragrance of a rose
And emit it into the stillness of the moment.
You launch the planes into the skies
And bring the travelers to their destination.
You bring life to the lifeless
And determine the destiny of man.
You have the powers of a God.
 
 But yet you lie still with the glassy lakes,
And your stillness breathes deception.
Your heart pumps fire through your veins
As you call to the wilds for the wind.
You sneer at the sagging of the leaves,
As you fill your cheeks with ammunition.
You laugh with the bending of the trees
And the ravaging of the forests.
You show off your muscles
As you become the mighty air,
Born into obscurity
And becoming the mad tempest.
You are the giver of life and
The taker away of it.
Yet without you,
There would be nothing.

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