Is It Poetry

How can it be, the hour's calm
Despite all that is happening here
The beat of the world
Foreboding and loud
Yet the chickadee sings its sweet note?

Wherefore the whims of the wind
At ev'ry map dot, it seems
Churning, marching
Fanning the pain
While the porch chime resonates fine?

What of the flames that burn so
Blue, yellow, orange, then to red
Smoke-filled eyes from the North
Westward heart deeply charred
As the core of your Earth sleeps content?

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