Serenity has fled this place.
The filigree of sunlight
through green leaves
falls across my legs
in no recognizable pattern.
Birdsong is just cacophony.
The breeze that used
to whisper to me
has nothing to say.
The blueberries no longer
want me to pick them.
Magick has divorced the creek.
Everything remains beautiful,
but provides no answers.
And yet, that's OK.
Few questions and
little time remain.
- mce
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