I step into a thunderstorm of autumn, warm colors lighting the landscape. Setting fire to the giant cathedral of trees whispering of their life. Petrichor engulfs my olfactory senses and I feel a settling begin. With each inhale I’m brought closer to the taste of saplings and spice brewing within my cup. The heat radiating from my tea is a welcome break from the winds cool, biting hug. The precipitation picks up building with speed. Closing my eyes I imagine the thumping crash of water upon my heart, soothing its beating drums. With each strike of the my footsteps the fallen leaves crunch, crunch, crunch, beneath my feet. Diffused light from the rain clouds highlights the grass in the kisses of dew upon its skin. All at once, with the howl of the wind, I am transported home again. Present in a land of vast mountains and crashing thunder I welcome the decay; lost in the perfection of another ending day.

This poem is not great,

It's not even good,

but it rhymes,

like a good poem should

It is rather short

and skinny and tall,

but it rhymes,

a trait above of all

It may remind you of something,

You say when you chat,

but it rhymes,

and who can argue with that?

It is not consistent

in pacing or tone,

but it rhymes,

so it shouldn't make you groan

And while this poem may sound

like teenage chatters,

it rhymes,

and that's all that matters.