At night, I briefly examine a remote possibility Of failing to wake up, to a green world of plants With bees prowling around on the opening petals The air turned crisp in lungs, heart fast beating The leaf fallen to the grass ,resting in its heads Soft- crunching as up and down of walking feet. Morning, nearer a possibility of sleeping night Happening to bees, to wind, to grass ,to dry feet I stare down at the frigid drying feet, on grass Now more open-ended and vague about closure.

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