angela

The drooping forest, a tangled mess –
A late-night storm had caused it distress.
The crooked branches, threatening as a spear,
Each creature in its burrow, hiding in fear. 

The pattering rain mercilessly fell

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America is a melting pot of fondue,
Made by a self-taught cook.
How many types of cheese in it?
Depends on how you look.
The unique flavors are all diverse
Each with its own taste.
Just like in America you are welcome,

Nature casts her eyes upon a land in which she flourished,
But to her dismay, the land is shriveled and malnourished.
The few trees that are left cry out to her in pain

My pencil skates a waltz of its own
On a bland white page, deprived of tone.
A legato glide here, a trilling spin there,
A sharp staccato that launches the dancer in the air.

My place of solace is black and white,

A lone, white owl spreads his wings
And into the hollow night he sings:
“Who?” He asks, voice echoing
And lifts into the air silently. 

Across a snowy, glistening field
The raptor glides, his grace surreal