Do you remember the sound of the wind,
its music and the tale it brings?
It was carrying minute pieces of this vast world,
and was a palette carrying color and Earth's artistic splendour.

Do you still hear the wolves howl to the moon from hills,
the melody of their notes emphasizing their unbroken will,
The strength in the pack as they stick together,
and remain undivided as they journey till forever?

Can you hear the dancing and clapping of trees,
and the waltz their branches perform with the evening breeze?
The expressions of life miniature but present,
Becoming the display of emotions in Earth's ignored elements.

Can we hear it as we did before today's world came;
Before the earth was changed to property to be claimed?
Before the many tiny channels nature used to whisper,
became sealed and the strength in her voice withered.

Betrayed by the inhabitants she longed to shield,
torn down to shreds by their desire to always build,
And losing the channels that were to be her voice,
her tranquil beauty of natural quiet was replaced with mechanical noise.

And yet even in her pain as she mourns the race that betrayed the others,
she longs to whisper to us in one way or another,
Hoping we would listen to her pleas and come to hear her sing,
Accepting, with content, the green gifts of beauty she brings.

Perhaps we can still restore her and make the whispers echo.
Like when we watched the clear night sky with the galaxies on high,
Safe and free from pollution's venomous smear
Staining the beautiful quiet she was trying to make us hear.

And when we see the dirty pieces on the ground leading to the sea,
happy to dump the remains of our existence on another chain of living beings,
We could hear the sinking fish as they help to pass out her screams,
That have risen from the frustration of the whispers we have been missing.

Nature is a spirit that deserves a genuine apology,
for all she wanted was to sing but was shunned for her melodies.
Then she turned to whispers and was mocked for the wind of her voice.
And in her last resort, her voice drowned out in her abuser's noises.

The voice is long dead and a whisper is the best bet.
Yet I wait for the day earth will get her channels to speak next.
Perhaps in another world where we carry the lessons of this one over.
But shall we wait till we lose the whispers altogether?

#WhisperingNature
@writco
© Aimee Distinction Joseph