A mountain spoke.
It ground its soil to jelly.
Sent itself rolling out
over former green. 

The sea pulled back silently,
came in yelling larger than before,
slid its hand up over land
and covered all.

Air itself had a say.
It offered itself, full of spark
and drench, and when it left
it took all with it. 

Fire muttered, snapped,
snarled, roared, but not
in anger; it felt hunger,
so it flared, fed, and filled;

after each of these, nothing more
to be said until the next time.
Next time it happens it will be clear
that no one has listened.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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