Nature has no master
But neither does she
Perhaps it is a futile endeavor which men have attempted for centuries to no avail,

To gather her water
To fight against a stone fence as it returns to the earth
Or keep drought from ravaging crops

Can she be had?
To tame her would be a self ruining task
As destructive to the settled as the settlor

Can nature be courted?
Gifted crowns of daisies and garlands of lilac
From her own bounty springs forth more and more
What is there to give to a source of such abundance

But her winter is ruthless!
Taking the young from the flock
Sweetness cannot exist without the bite
That dull void she harbors within

And when summer comes,
She leaves sweat trailed amongst the harvest
With golden wheat stalks strewn about

To tame the wheel of seasons would be futile
Those who came before were swept along clinging to her spokes

So, does she appreciate hesitation?
The willingness to relinquish control
The embracing of uncertainty

Or will she carry on
in her infinite self-assured
forward momentum
Awaiting the next

She moves down the path
Sure but careful
Pausing to drink from the stream
Lapping greedily as if it never fully quenches her thirst

And as the doe eyed creature makes its way into the clearing
Unsure but terribly trusting
She flashes her fangs at it
The fawn rears its legs and freezes before fleeing
Understanding she’s as old as the forest itself

She hastily retreats back through the trees
Embarrassed at her showing of animalistic urges
To her castle

Where a young traveler seeks employment in the fields
And the grapes hang plump, expectantly on their vines
Like lilac blossoms waiting to be harvested at their peak

Which she will come to realize the traveler smells like,
Among other more carnal pleasures

The harvest would be crushed tomorrow
The juice extracted, flowing, red
Until all that remains is a purple hull

She leaves only the skin of the fruit
To be discarded

Should I succumb to the forest?
Let the moss
creep over ribs and settle in hollows
Let her leave an effervescent trail,
when the dew settles.

Or when the rain falls
Should I?
Let her water reach its fingers into valleys
As the level rises
With nothing left to restrain it
Until it gushes forth.

As the mist settles again before the heat of the afternoon
The forest reminds its own
She cannot be had
But continues to beckon.

The dew will settle

And the rain will come