Mother Nature\"

Beneath the sky’s cerulean dome,

She stirs in silence, breathes in foam—

Not carved of stone, nor made of gold,

But ancient, vast, and uncontrolled.

 

Her hair is forest, thick and deep,

Where shadows dance and wild things leap;

Her voice, the wind on mountain crest,

The rustle in the pine’s green vest.

 

Her heart, the river, strong and wide,

That carves its path with patient pride;

Her tears, the rain that cools the plain,

Her laughter, thunder after rain.

 

She paints the dawn in blush and rose,

And bids the sleeping desert doze;

She sings the seasons, one by one—

Spring’s bloom, summer’s fierce bright sun,

The amber hush of autumn’s flame,

Then winter’s whisper, cold and tame.

 

Each leaf that falls, each seed that springs,

Is cradled by her gentle wings.

But woe to those who scorn her grace,

Who tear her skin and steal her space—

For though she nurses, feeds, and shields,

She too commands the earthquake’s yields.

 

Her patience wears as forests fade,

As glaciers weep in light and shade;

Her fury wakes in storm and flood,

When greed forgets its place and blood.

 

Yet still she offers, hand outstretched—

A seed, a stream, a sun-kissed beech;

A chance to heal, to learn, to mend,

To walk as kin, not foe, with friend.

 

So let us honor her domain—

Her soil, her sky, her sun, her rain;

For in her pulse, our own is spun:

We are her children—she, the One.

 

And when we rest our weary head,

It is her earth that holds the bed;

Her breath, the air we draw above—

Mother of silence, strength, and love.