Early Spring stormed the Valley this year.
Noahs own flood rains
beat the blossoms from their
tenuous hold on the apple trees,
pounding the petals,
as wounded in battle perish
in the mud and blood of
bayonet combat,
drown beneath boots of both
foe and comrade.

Mother is a capricious warrior,
bestowing boundless blessing
or merciless murder
at her whim,
no matter our plan or plea.

If she ordains it,
we cannot win.
Tossed in her maelstrom
we are lost in the din
of the dying.

Yes,
revere the Mother
as the ancients did Moloch,
but trust Her for constancy?

Never!