Nature

 
I used to write about nature
in its truest sense –
   the whisper of pine needles
   heady scent of moss
   rioting dandelions
   and hooting owls
The way that dewdrops cling
to the border of kale leaves in the garden
and how the stars tell stories
of my magnificent smallness

I still perceive this poetry
all around me

But I’ve become consumed of late
with the nature of humans
   untangling ill-fated attachments
   to wounded avoidants
   that painful natural cycle
   I just can’t break

And now my own nature is becoming
  so heavy
I am ready to lie
   face down
   in the stench of last year’s leaves
   and let the decay take me

back into nature itself

.