Reasoning with Whirl

Outside the window pane, the sun glows
golden-green upon the leaves
that dance so lightly in the breeze.

The trees bow to the soft-blown air,
a little curtsy to the fiddler,
though to the passing wind
it's all the same:

to gently flutter leaves,
or rip their limbs off howling
and heap their splintered heads in piles.

Wind whistles to the rhythms
of the dance of heartless gods unseen:
gravity and enthalpy,
the spinning of the earth.

If trees in their distress could pray,
to whom should they? Or we?
How does one pray to gravity?
In what direction genuflect?

What chant is there for us to sing
to still the roaring waves of molecules,
to tame the whirling world?

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