The fog lifts gently as the land warms,
A log, once a tree, now on a journey,
To oneness with dear Earth,
I step, a poor judgment trip,
On the ground, the earth smells me ,
Not mine to smell the earth today ,gifts of pollen,
My nares' scourge , so reactive they block all scents ,
No breaks, no twists but for a bruised ego,
My fall cushioned on the softened leaves,
Last fall's gift to Mother nature,
All nature ,a gift for us too always
(poem by PC-3 -04/22/2023)
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