Sonnet III

When she does cry, it is a hurricane -
Woolly and wild, windswept tears shake the earth -
Buildings crumble, lifetimes cease at her pain;
As she sculpts a landscape fit for rebirth.
While an anguished roar torn from some far place
Ranges through the present, running amok,
Trees are uprooted, saplings are replaced
With fertile seeds in a maternal muck.

When she is spent, she lays for centuries,
Loving her solitude, drying her tears;
Raising children to be stronger than trees,
Willing her love to be longer than years.

Sadness allowed, a tear every day,
So the raging pain finds no place to stay.