Never again know now I’ll never feel

The glow of dawn across the winsome fields nor touchless majestic scrunch of old moss on scrub oak’s gentle forest floor,

or milkweed pods beside old doors.

Nor the splendid aroma’s drift of good

in breeze not seen or felt to hang

like gasp of its real eyes on lake sunlit,

like great ephemeral quiet in mimic

of its frozen wintery opposite,

or the gusts of Fall or bursting sun of Springs unsung.

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