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.