She cannot apologize for her nature,
Not when Earth doesn’t regret her own.
She’s not sorry for the rain that leaves her eyes
Or for the storm she craves after nights
To restore her back
Just below the breaking point.
She’s not sorry for the art which resides within her,
Tornadoes and hurricanes,
Shredding ideals and holocausts alike
And kneading them into a resolutionary art
So only she can understand.
And still, she’s not sorry,
Not to the ones who believe she’s lost in eternity
While they claim refuge in society.
Oceans wave through her
Weathering her curves delicately
And fire blazes in her eyes,
As it should.
She can’t apologize to those she burns,
For they mocked her gaze.
She’s not sorry for the bark that builds her,
Even after strangers and familiars carved in their initials;
She’s a fan of scrap-booking.
Bits and pieces of discarded paths,
Through uncombed gardens,
Call to her.
She entertains her eyes,
Then lets nature roam free
Together, they are never sorry.
Photographer: Barbara A Lane