The Tug Of War

The river formed curves,

As the snow melted along;

On the surface of white,

Hilly storms like prongs.

The barricades cut sharp,

With no stone unturned;

The lush green fields,

Worn smooth and spurned.

Pulled by both,

The moon and the orb;

Caught in a war,

Of tugs and korbs.

Falling into deep,

And salty churns of blues;

Leaving the lush greens,

Standing tall, in windy hues.