There is no sunshine,
Still all the bushes are green;
Above, yellow leaves.
Creeping on my porch:
Soft, green moss on a wood plank;
Nature keeps crawling.
My front yard jungle
Grows freely and without care;
I just look at it.
As still as a leaf
Tiny bird sits on a branch;
Then he flies away.
Cushion on gravel
Raises some telling questions:
For whom? Why? What for?
Solitary blooms
Spring up above the dead leaves
Their petals dropping.
Phantom horse gallops
Through the delicate branches
Of the dying bush.
Old white bathtub leans
Against equally old tree;
Both missions over.
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