Nature does not hide Her fury,
The wind shrieks and slices
The wave roars and crashes
The cold blasts and bites
The rain pounds and slashes
Before Her unwavering might,
Man is another lowly creature,
Trying, as taught, to conceal his fright,
But She does not disdain in her anger.
Society does not honor such honesty,
“It is primal, barbaric, unseemly,”
The painted faces turn shaded eyes away.
Their vengeance is found behind closed doors,
Their anger veiled tongues and hidden barbs,
Uncured, the wounds fester beneath civil gazes.
And so the creatures cling to society’s moors,
Hailing superiority over savage worlds beyond,
When not a fresh breath is taken above polished floors,
And not a sincere face is ever to be found.
But Nature is true in all Her faces,
After the ferocity of the midsummer storm,
She does not dull the first of the sun’s rays,
The tranquil mists over the valley as day is born,
The does frolicking in the fragrant meadow,
The soft call of the meandering brook,
The cool secrecy of the owl’s hollow,
The reverent silence of the overlook,
Most powerful of all, the stag’s heart,
As he sees the doe that makes joy boundless.
All these sights, Nature does not suppress,
So that Man might follow Her art.
Society disdains such pure expressions,
Man learns to smother His emotions,
Until they are pale shadows of former passions.
“But such ‘tis the price of civilization,”
The painted faces say, lauding their freedom,
Man realizes He has freed Himself to live as a shell,
Until He escapes the rusting concrete kingdom.
A creature once more, he witnesses Heaven and Hell,
The fettered heats and energies course through him,
And he knows once more Her forgotten wisdom.