Hurricane Life

I have an eye but it is not dry,
because of my battering rain;
in the Atlantic is where I am made,
call me a fine hurricane.

I start to spin and take water in
and feel my internal strength gain;
all of the weathermen give me a grade,
one to five makes my might plain.

When summer wanes I gather my rains
to travel my own ocean lane;
then with my winds in a grand escapade,
I am a storm on the main.

Where I then go depends on the flow
as upper winds strengthen or wane;
I feel a little effect of the trade,
but there is not any strain.

Then I make land on city or sand
and many times I am a bane;
for into structures I cut like a blade,
yet other structures remain.

So sans the sea there is less of me
as I feel my energy drain;
over the land I continue to fade,
call me the late hurricane.

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