'The Angry Wind'

Perhaps appropriately, today's prompt is to write an angry poem. That is, a poem about someone or something that gets angry. Could be a person, animal, or even them there angry clouds. As usual, I'm excited to see which unexpected directions y'all take with this prompt.

‘The angry wind’

The wind whipped the lone tree,
slashed it in places,
shook it like a rag doll,
dashed the nascent fruit
to the earth,
snapped branches
tore the leaves,
swept them away,
in gusty rage.

Its fury spent,
it howled –
low, eerie.
It moaned,
it moaned.
The piteous moans
seemed to say
to the tired tree,
‘You birthed my anger,
caused it to blow
all over you,
by standing
in my way.’

The tree spoke,
‘My piteous form
reminds you
of your anger.
Makes your angrier.
You have done your job.
I will do mine -
Stay rooted.’

'My tree - name missing!'

For today's poem, I want you to write a poem about something missing. It can be about an actual physical object or something you just can't put your finger on (like "love" or "the spirit of Christmas" or something). – Robert Lee Brewer’s prompt for day 6

‘My tree – name missing!’

With the labour of Hercules
(diverting the river Alpheus)
as its backdrop,
my tree labours to rise from the earth
old now and struggle-weary.
Its trunk inclines heavily to the left
and grows to a stumpy height. Pauses.
A hoary deity
it gives out four arms sans attributes.
Has the earth absorbed them?
Or, Time harvested them?
Its four arms,
branches to be precise:
One moves heavily to the left
sapped of life-force
(or surviving on a weak dribble),
sags downward to collapse on the moist grass,
then pulls itself up to slant upwards
defying its own death-wish;
the second one sculpts itself
into a shallow hook
and stops abruptly mid-way;
the third rise higher
with tortured twists and turns;
The fourth shoots up straight
upholding the collapsing honour
of its fatigued family.

A creeper adorns
the short trunk
in a filigree of stems and leaves,
the only lively ornament
of this haggard beauty.

I saw my tree draped
in autumn’s bewitching sadness,
in winter’s somber gray.
And in early spring
when the rest of the garden
was rousing itself into new life
(I abandoned it in summer, for no reason).
But my tree forever heard
death’s dark call,
or so it seemed to me.
Its only sign of life,
dark bean-like pods hanging
like so many tarnished earrings.

For three years I asked its name
on each visit
(I must admit, very few)
A lost traveler hungering
for a definite sign
I asked
the gardener
the security guards
the visitors old and young.
Each saw the tree
called its novel form
by different admiring names
but none knew its real name.
An amused smile at my eagerness
a shake of the head,
an earnest apology -
I got these,
but not my tree’s name.

Revisiting the garden
two years back
I chanced upon a similar tree.
And … with grateful eyes
read the name of my tree
on a simple sign.
Blessed, I wept with joy
to find this precious new link
to my tree.
My tree now named
will remain nameless for you,
till you tell me that you
treasure it as I do.