Below is my entry for the Poetry Dice contest, week 5, with thanks to @robyneggs. The poetry dice image for week five is re-posted at the bottom for reference.
"Blaming Eurus"
A forested fire had raged through the night
'neath a crescent blue hemi-morphite.
What on Earth could be sparking these tree-toking flames?
Thought the moon, hanging vexed, as the scorching increased.
So he questioned the clouds; he demanded some names.
It was Eurus, the wind of the east.
She'd arrived a month early to breathe on the land
but her wheezing had got out of hand.
Now the fires she fueled, past their lines did outgrow.
When she called out for help, the resulting denials
had caused her to then hyperventilate so
that the fires had spired for miles.
But Eurus was only responsible, surely,
for exhaling out prematurely.
It was Thunderbolt's javelin arrow of light
that he crooked down to kindle the tinder to flame.
But the visionless clouds had conspired against her,
in heaping on Eurus the blame.
So the moon donned his tophat with polka dot print;
in his buttonhole, one sprig of mint.
Then he dipped himself down through the penumbral cone
and he gathered the clouds in a cumulus quorem.
“Young Eurus you named as the force to atone.
She was unfairly flagged in this forum.”
Now a drama ensued, as the mayhem of clouds ,
it can rival the violentest crowd.
Soon the cirrus and stratus were coming to blows
and the cumulonimbus was threatening hail.
As the moon blew his whistle to calm down the foes
a green shell was sucked up in the gale.
But poor Eurus was watching; she acted at once
for she saw, in his saving, a bunce.
So up-scooping the turtle, she surfed him on spray,
and the weight of his body that wind did defray.
Blowing turtle shell safely to Banderas Bay,
Eurus saved the reptilian day.
Then the clouds, in their handlessness, clapped for east wind
and decided their blame to rescind.
So the moon sent a summons to Thunderbolt's lair,
where he waits and he readies his charge to unleash,
and demanded the Thunder King mumble a prayer
Asking God for a pastel pastiche.
On the afternoon sky, angels painted an arch
with the colors of blossoms in March,
and by nightfall, the easterly breathing was calm.
Evening Earth ebbed and flowed like an endocrine gland.
Mister moon rode the rainbow up, humming a psalm,
And the turtles slept under the sand.
If you like the meter and rhyme scheme of "Blaming Eurus," you might also like my 'epic poem,' the 64-stanza "Grendel's Aunt," written in a similar style.
(tree image courtesy pixabay.com)