Laid back or laziness

                                          A laid-back life is like a breeze that moves the willow tree, It keeps you calm and gives you room to breathe and just be free. But laziness is like a fog that keeps you in your bed, It takes away the open road and leaves a cloud instead. The peaceful mind enjoys the sun and watches clouds roll past, It knows just when to take a break and when to move at last. The lazy heart forgets to plant the seeds that make us grow, And misses out on all the joy that busy people know. One is a choice to slow things down and let your spirit rest, To look around at what you have and feel that you are blest. The other is a heavy heavy weight that holds your feet in place, And keeps you from the happy path and finishes the race. So rest your bones beneath the shade when all your work is through, But do not let the sleepy dust take over all...
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Forest Fire Raging

 

The sky, a copper bowl, began to bleed,

A crimson sun, a fever-driven need.

The wind, a thief, stole whispers from the breeze,

And fed the hunger gnawing at the trees.

A hungry beast, with smoke-filled, hungry maw,

Devoured the pines against all nature's law.

The crackle turned to thunder, deep and low,

A living, monstrous, agonizing glow.


The forest floor, a vibrant, verdant green,

Became a memory, a silent scene.

The animals fled, a panicked, desperate run,

Their only sin to stand before the sun.

The deer, with eyes of terror, turned to flee,

The squirrel, trapped upon a burning tree.

The birds, a storm of feathers, took to flight,

Across a world now turned to orange light.


The air, a shroud of poison, thick and gray,

Stifled the breath of those who could not stray.

The firefighters, tiny, brave, and grim,

Stood at the edge of fire's wicked whim.

They fought the monster, armed with water's stream,

Against a force that lived a fevered dream.

But fire laughed, and leaped, and grew, and spread,

And turned the living, breathing forest dead.


And in the silence, after fire's rage,

The landscape turned a dark and bitter page.

A wasteland, scorched, of twisted, blackened forms,

Where only memory remains of storms.

And yet, a promise, whispered in the ash,

A tiny seed, a fleeting, hopeful flash.

That from this ruin, new life will begin,

A story told, when spring breathes life again.


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