To Everything there is a season --
A time to be born, A time to die.
As with men
So too with storms.
Over a dozen days
This storm had grown,
Matured and ruled the sky.
Drawing its strength from tropics and poles,
The storm had troubled the seas,
Warred against mountain and plain
And subjugated all living things
Beneath its wrath.
Now in its dying
The question arose.
"Did the storm make a difference?"
On the grand, planetary scale of things
Probably not.
Oh, it raised a ruckus
And mixed the airs up a bit
As all storms are want to do.
But with the ending of the next solar cycle,
Everything would be pretty much
As they were before
This storm was born.
Inequities between pole and tropics
Temporarily diminished by the storm
Would be reinstated
Strong as ever.
Death can be lonely,
Especially for a storm.
Although this great storm
Had spawned several young
And two would join forces
To reach maturity as a single entity.
But the parent would have nearly decayed
Before they decisively
Dimpled the pressure field.
The last of the central core
Filled in just before dawn,
Late December,
As the winter solstice began.