Will the storm ever pass          

and will this one be the last?          

Will my becalmed and tethered mind          

remember the debris flying past?

I wished that I was of the earth          

compatible with green growth          

not expelling water and air          

I wished that I was not a fire.

That I could be earthly bound,

my words be made of clay

and falling rain would sooth their sound. 

Who am I talking to anyway?

I dreamed I was a fertile thing

in some glad primaeval dawn.

A rolling field primed to bring

forth gently waving ears of corn.

Not this gale of words; too loud

to catch the flow of what they say.

Who are they talking to anyway?