The four flights of
measured systemic exertion,
and breathlessness,
keep me away from bliss.
I belong with 'em comrades,
living in harmony,
the drops of rain
on the grass blades.

The yard below,
moist and alive its soul,
calls me to dig and splash,
plant dreams,
nurture, nourish, flourish
as the aloof,
loving boy I was;
not the smiling,
distant man I am,
teased daily by Petrichor!

– Leslie


Thank you @7skywrites

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