Wreak

In the quiet of midnight’s sigh,
a restless wind begins to wreak
its ancient chore upon the stone,
whispering secrets that the old walls speak.

It wreaks a dance of rusted leaves,
tossing them like forgotten dreams,
while shadows stretch and intertwine,
painting the night with muted seams.

From furrowed brow to furrowed field,
the storm will wreak its quiet rage,
yet in its wake a calmer bloom
emerges, soft upon the page.

So let the elements wreak their art,
for chaos bears the seed of peace,
and in the wreckage we discern
the gentle hymn of sweet release.