Night's Storm

Hello and Welcome to the Grove,
This is my first work on this site, and I'm not entirely sure which topic to post this under. Primarily, this is a poem about a thunderstorm at night, but it's also an allegory for... well I'm sure you can make all the right connections ;)
~Satyr

***

The Night Storm


A tall old oak, revered for strength.
His ancient roots grow deep.
They twist through soil and back in time,
For months they've been asleep.

Outlined by tumultous dark clouds,
His branches spread out wide.
He stands unyielding to her calls,
Embracing the dark sky.

The storm wind blows around his skin,
In merciless assault.
Now hissing like a coiled snake,
Now screeching like a hawk.

Along the bole, soft velvet moss
Awaits the flowing rain.
Night's passion lives within the storm
And always ends the same

Wild grasses grow beneath the oak,
They yearn for her caress.
As growing breezes stir their stalks,
And rustle their sharp blades.

The night grows wild, the storm more fierce,
The air is filled with sounds.
The wind it howls, moans, and screams
And soon, the oak resounds.

His branches creak and crack and groan,
Beneath her eager press.
With rustling, then, his leaves return,
The midnight storm's caress.

No longer able to hold back,
A fog falls on the fields.
It hugs and blankets every curve,
From valleys to smooth hills.

It wraps around the stately oak,
And hides him out of sight.
What happens then, no one can tell,
The secret's kept by night.

A lightning strikes the mighty oak,
And turns its sap to steam.
Their union is as old as time,
As fleeting as a dream.

The tree is strong, it takes the blow,
Like countless times before.
And only tiny, top-most twigs,
Give off a light-blue glow.

The storm, now mad with passion, roars.
It cries, and begs and wails
The oak tree bends, and whips its limbs,
In rhythm with screaming gales

Then heavy rain begins to fall,
Each drop a gentle kiss.
Upon the rough bark of the oak,
Upon his glossy leaves.

She'll stay all night, her winds will blow
Around the reaching tree.
Her rain will wash away his pain.
Together, they are free.

Then bit by bit, the storm recedes,
Their passion for now spent.
And where the clouds their moisture shed
The ground lies warm and wet.

The sun next morrow, warms the Earth,
Awakening the seeds,
So that new life from them may rise
And welcome in the spring.

***
PS This poem was in part inspired by a painting I saw. For the curious ones it is:
Vorobyev, Maxim. Oak Fractured by Lightning. (1842, oil on canvas, public domain).