Form: Quatrains

The air tastes fresh and clean after the storm
With skies still violent red in nature’s rage.
As clouds gather into a thunderous swarm
We rush to seek shelter from the carnage.

Who sees the butterfly, she’s lost alone,
A flutter of wings as rain starts once more.
She is battered by speed of the cyclone
Crushed, she falls down, dazed, helpless on the floor.

Flashes of blue, death comes in lightning’s strike
A soul claimed that instant by reaper’s hand.
A mere morsel speared upon icy spike
Did she see the vision of ethereal land?

©JGFarmer2008