Sweat of the Turbulence
The sacred waters from the hidden high towers,
the sweat of the working God of Thor
from beneath the Kingdom in the empyreal,
seven steps up on the ladder to the Highest,
in the turbulence of the random winds,
the cold wind armed with spears
and the hot with arrows and battle axes
forming columns together of black and gray,
disrupt the cadence of the flowing wind.
From a seat up and over the turbulence,
up over the high towers,
a grand view of beauty dressed in black gowns,
nervous clouds pace below about the skies
forming a sea from the blood of the onyx,
glimmering gems moving into each other,
a love dance of the broken rhythms,
pounding tympani running through the skies
and shooting sparks from the beatings,
music dressed in black and gray,
a fanfare to the birth of the tempest
and to the glory of its beauty,
a portrait of nature in her finest setting,
an ode to the sweet running clouds
and the workings of the hidden towers
form the dew they made into rain.
At last the falling of the American rain,
the sheets dancing with the wind,
the streaming down in uniformity,
the beauty molded by the hands of the tempest,
the seas broken into segments,
running side by side to the earth
through the searing Arizona heat,
splashing onto the compacted ground
and in time soaking the earth below.
M-m-m the sweet aroma of the petrichor again
like colossal rose gardens suspended in space
and the resurrection of the plant life that once was
is a new sighting to behold,
a magical phenomenon;
life stretching out again from a deep sleep
as Mother Earth rises again into the living.
The sweet aroma of life comes to be again
through the eternal workings of the balance of nature,
the sweat of the turbulence, the resuscitator of life,
an unassuming act of heroism in the sympathetic skies.
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