Hailstones

In a sky of silvered grey,
Where clouds amass in thick array,
A shiver hums, the air stands still,
Nature pauses, holds its will.

A sudden crack, a roaring call,
Hailstones burst, begin their fall.
From heaven’s heights, cold spheres descend,
To tap and tap, no end to end.

Each hailstone crafted, hard and small,
Yet bound to earth by gravity’s thrall.
In winter’s grip or autumn’s touch,
Their icy hands bring forth so much.

Upon rooftops, roads, and fields below,
They pelt the world, put on a show.
A crystalline cascade, fierce and wild,
Nature’s tantrum, uncontrolled and riled.

Yet as they land and start to melt,
In puddles new their touch is felt.
The earth absorbs each frozen piece,
Its anger fades, its tempests cease.

What seemed so harsh, a bitter sting,
Becomes a tale the seasons sing.
Of moments fierce and moments free,
In the cycle of nature’s harmony.

Hailstones fall, and then they’re gone,
Part of a world that carries on.
They storm, they stir, they leave their mark,
Then slip away back into dark.

In fleeting might, they shape our view,
Reminding us of the old and new.
A dance of ice, a fleeting reign,
As nature whispers, "I remain."