Turtle shells and abandoned nests fallen from the trees,

Drifts of ash, like dirty snow, bring me to my knees.

The garden scorched, the woodland torched.

No song of bird, no cricket heard.

No leaf, no thatch, no underbrush,

Mother Nature whispers in the hush.

My power you see in the brown and the black,

As firemen fight her burning shroud back.

Nearby windows shatter then split,

House paint puckers as flames lick.

Quiet now with firemen gone from the home and the brush,

I sift through the mud and now the mush.

There an album in a crushed desk,

I stop to clutch it and sit for a rest.

I say to myself, push on as I must,

Tho' I am without burn, my possessions are dust.

I look to the heavens and give Thanks for the morrow.

Pray for the rain, then give way to my sorrow.